Voices I I Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

You cannot see, feel or touch me,
You can only read my mind-
thru' my stories, if those stories
are absolute and true;
for we are optically opaque,
where impressions must be built-
on tales of black Moon darkness,
deaths presence and absence touch,
lifting life, love... existence
but still voices in your head
tell you what you want to hear-
about who you think I am.
Am I Life or am I Death?
And, if somehow I wasn't who
the person you had thought,
would you label me a non-entity,
and my words shibboleth,
like an Anaphora poem,
or the graphic brush of Dali?
Then again, does it really matter?

After midnight, I muse,
reclusively, impersonally,
sometimes I'll take my pen,
and place it by my sword
to see if the adage holds
that a Cross is mightier
than an Elk-Ridge,
while I write my stories, strange,
beyond life's normality.
[I relate to this very well]
And quite content so I be-
with life and love as it comes,
yet if your voices whisper this
come morning next upon your rise
would you claim you were just dreaming?

Now all of this of me you know,
but does that mean you really know
the "Me" that changes norm to surreal
with my Elk-Ridge quill.
What if this were just another-
one of my many tales of Macabre,
as people like me often do
as Imagists of the Dark Silent Word.

So tell me you believe-
your foresight trumps your hindsight,
and I'll sell you an Indian Island
of steep peering scrapers,
for twenty-four dollars...
and a map to every gravesite
where Donne and Poe sleep peacefully
for awhile.

We cannot see, hear nor touch;
you have nary a cluE-
as to what I'm all about,
so please don't pretend or portend
that you know who I am;
So, go, now...tell your voices,
''stop talking...and listen.
Shhhhh.....I hear a breeze,
It's nothing...You are home.






©Frank James Ryan Jr./FjR
MMXIX All Rights Reserved