Frank Lewis

Frank Lewis Poems

Frank Lewis Biography

My knowledge of poetry is shallow, my experience mostly pertaining to the work of Poe, whom I respect immensely. My work itself, though inspired by no specific writer, is extracted from my notions of beauty, which is in turn inspired by the ideals outlined in Poe's 'Philosophy of Composition.' I find the mere contemplation of the human struggle to be fascinating, and in many cases, moving to tears. I am captivated by dreams, desires, and tragic introspection. The macabre, although often accused of being unsatisfying and even taboo, is the second purist form of beauty, only to true love; however, such a subject is too inexplicable to be encapsulated sufficiently in mere words. My poetic style primarily is void of rhythm and rhyme, as I have not yet grown to utilize them effectively. Rather, I enjoy experimentation with both structure and technique, striving, to the best of my feeble abilities, for each of my poems to be a varied, original experience that draws the reader closer to a comprehension of beauty.)

The Best Poem Of Frank Lewis

Twelve Fields Of Ash

In the town by the Rocky Mountains, the Fire burned at midnight.
Those homes in wonder, gazing at the Knight,
Now lie as Twelve Fields of Ash.
Where there were walls, rise walls of fire;
Where there were rooms, sleep plumes of smoke;
Where there were colors, Ash is painting black.
And the Fire; the Fire rages on.

Cease, great Wind; I demand!
Already I know the Fire.
The beastly inferno-
Its limbs, the glowing ambiance scratching and skittering along the earth,
Clambering for prey;
The heat, its breath scorching the earth for miles around.
I see the flicker of its tongues now from afar,
Screeching fear, panic, doom!
And so the Fire, the Fire rises higher.

Knowledge, great Wind; I plea!
I know not the Ash.
It is a home,
Yet also as if a myth-
Its walls I have not felt;
Its rooms I have not inhabited;
Its color-what color?
I see only Ash, departing on the Wind.

But the Fire; the Fire rages on-
Rising,
Spreading,
Burning.

In the town by the Rocky Mountains,
Lay Twelve Fields of Ash,
No more,
For the Ash has all but vanished on the Wind.

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