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    Time Was...Love Is...Ramblings...
    Time Was...Love Is...Ramblings...
    Time Was...Love Is...Ramblings...
    Ebook317 pages2 hours

    Time Was...Love Is...Ramblings...

    By Bonny Franke

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    About this ebook

    Poetry is a mysterious combination of images, sounds, reflections prompted by reader and writer, a rhythm of thoughts conveyed in expressive phrases to convey subtle or blunt messages. Poetry is a challenge to the uninitiated and a rewarding experience to those who revel in imagination.

    Times change. Some disparage the simple rhyme. Yet the sing-song effort of positioning image with image tickles the imagination, spurs the memory, and prompts recollections of other times and other feelings. Rhyming, when forced, results in cheap efforts to create images or phrases based on convention. Words that result in confusion fail in that the reader misses the intended thought.

    Ballads, odes, songs, sonnets, elegies, epigrams, epitaphs, inscriptions, and autographs come into their own in their own times and days. Many linger and stand true through the ages. Flawed artistic forms fall short to dismay their observers by lack of substance, or perhaps even by lack of convention.

    No claim is made here that any of the following will linger through time unscathed or even remembered. Some may be challenged by their lack of substance. A few, perhaps, will strike a convergent point of identity and be accepted for what they are: observations by one recalling points in time.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateJan 13, 2012
    ISBN9781463441050
    Time Was...Love Is...Ramblings...
    Author

    Bonny Franke

    About the author… Bonny Franke, Ph.D. A writer, speaker, and free-lance editor, Bonny Franke earned a Bachelor’s degree from Birmingham- Southern College in Birmingham, Alabama, a Master’s from Austin College in Sherman, Texas, and a Ph.D. from the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. She lives in Plano, Texas. Among her other activities, she led a writer’s workshop on ‘Editing – 10 Steps’ at Barnes and Noble for four years. Selected publication include: Broderick, Brown Books, Dallas, TX. Poetry in Voices, Iliad Press. MI. Poetry in Voices of America, Sparrowgrass, WV. Poetry in Echoes of Yesterday, Nat’l Library of Poetry, MD. Poetry in The Sounds of Poetry, ibid.

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      Book preview

      Time Was...Love Is...Ramblings... - Bonny Franke

      Time Was…

      Love Is…

      Ramblings…

      Bonny Franke

      526.png

      AuthorHouse™

      1663 Liberty Drive

      Bloomington, IN 47403

      www.authorhouse.com

      Phone: 1-800-839-8640

      © 2012 by Bonny Franke. All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

      Published by AuthorHouse 11/06/2019

      ISBN: 978-1-4634-4106-7 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4634-4105-0 (e)

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913218

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

      and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Book I

      Time Was . . .

      poems by

      Bonny Franke

      Dedication

      To all who have come before to leave their imprint on our lives and to all those who now give of their grace and lend completeness to our days.

      Preface

      Poetry is a mysterious combination of images, sounds, reflections prompted by reader and writer, a rhythm of thoughts conveyed in expressive phrases to convey subtle or blunt messages. Poetry is a challenge to the uninitiated and a rewarding experience to those who revel in imagination.

      Times change. Some disparage the simple rhyme. Yet the sing-song effort of positioning image with image tickles the imagination, spurs the memory, and prompts recollections of other times and other feelings. Rhyming, when forced, results in cheap efforts to create images or phrases based on convention. Words that result in confusion fail in that the reader misses the intended thought.

      Ballads, odes, songs, sonnets, elegies, epigrams, epitaphs, inscriptions, and autographs come into their own in their own times and days. Many linger and stand true through the ages. Flawed artistic forms fall short to dismay their observers by lack of substance, or perhaps even by lack of convention.

      No claim is made here that any of the following will linger through time unscathed or even remembered. Some may be challenged by their lack of substance. A few, perhaps, will strike a convergent point of identity and be accepted for what they are: observations by one recalling points in time.

      LIST OF TITLES

      Title

      Schedules

      If You Can

      Later

      Reflections

      Dictum

      Destiny

      Watchers

      Mimus

      Too Swift

      Saltpeter

      Foiled

      Curtain Call

      Bundled

      Winged

      Silver Coins

      Bright Star

      Uzziah

      Herod’s Sword

      Confetti

      Yorktown

      Journeys

      Valleys

      Old Babe

      One Day

      Days

      Circumstance

      Waiting

      The Soul

      Wandering

      Bend

      Settle White

      Sleeping

      Recount

      Reserved

      Folk

      A Thousand Kings

      Look Alive

      The Dawn

      Gather

      Twenty

      Day’s Path

      Friends

      Caught

      Branches

      Legends

      Southern Sun

      Man Comes

      Little Times

      Look Past

      I Wish

      Should It

      Inside

      The Dream

      Just Me

      The Door

      Notice

      Stay or Go

      Next

      Touch Tough

      The Leader

      Today

      Three Hence

      Burning

      Who’s There

      My World

      Golden Steed

      Fancy Dan’s

      Two Lives

      Choice or Chance

      School’s Out

      Seasons

      Night Lights

      Old Mother

      Curiosity

      Good Soul

      Celebration

      Home of the Brave

      A Miracle

      Passage

      Ageless

      Earth Moves

      Circumstance

      If and When

      Houses

      Before

      Once a Town

      Too Soon

      Rockets

      Old Thief

      Paved Over

      They

      Man’s Seed

      Black Trees

      Promissory Note

      Falling Stars

      Kaleidoscope

      Sea Storm

      Harry

      Conquerors

      Layer After Layer

      Ambitions

      Black Gold

      Soldiers

      Beach View

      Moments

      Jack-o-Lantern

      Today

      Summer’s Gone

      Whiskers

      Santa’s Scene

      Hands

      All We’ve Known

      Impatient Day

      Choices

      She

      Need Not

      Who Cares

      Stay Still

      Saturdays

      A Moment

      Through A Past

      Ancestry

      Not Shared

      Yesterday’s Place

      Growing

      A Guide

      SCHEDULES

      On my schedule there’s a crowd.

                  Some will push, some will shove.

                  Some will quietly stand around.

      On my calendar meetings holler for time, the troll.

                  Meeting follows meeting follows meeting.

      On my desk are notes and a message and a

                  message and a message to return a call

                  immediately when I can.

      On my mind there’s a place without a schedule

                  or a crowd. No notes, not a message.

      Meetings are done, no calls come in,

                  and wishing makes the sound.

      IF YOU CAN

      Can you see beyond the wrinkled cheek, the hoary head of winters sown over frosty nights?

      Can you hear the music falling free within the nods and sighs of withered hands fluttering in spring’s new dance?

      Can you find a twinkling star within the rheumy eye that cast its scorn over summer sweat?

      Can you sense the glow of harvest gold that fed the pride of tall success in brilliant hues of foliage ripe when days were young and rode the night?

      Within the withered cloak of age the child, the youth, the fair, the brave, stays and stays to let you meet the span of time and seek a friend where, and if, and when, you can.

      LATER

      By procrastination he does deny the progress

                  of the state.

      The great idea whose time has come will find

                  him yet to wait.

      Let’s think on it, he says, and stalls.

      An thus the fleeting dance of time,

                  and aye, the progress of the

                  state, rests not on those whose

                  minds are quick to see the

                                                                  promise, nor the fate that

                                                                                          calls.

      Let’s think on it, he says, and stalls.

      REFLECTIONS

      Look in a mirror to discover the future.

      Time completes its circle and continues.

      That which was, is not.

                  Yesteryear is misty fog.

                  Tomorrow has no barter.

      Now is the middle link reflecting back

                  the form, the will, the illusion

                  of determination.

      A completed circle continues.

      DICTUM

      Man lives in the past, yet none will

                  chance the future.

      The present alone is the form of            

                  life and its sure possessions.

      History puts forth its heroes.

                  Prayers cast dreams about.

      Stepping in life’s rivers, tomorrow

                  flows past our knowing.

      Schopenhauer put forth his dictum.

      Phenomenon of will lies only

                  in the present.

      DESTINY

      Aristotelian or Platonist,

                  a continuity of archetypes greet plagues

                  in secret succession.

      Across the centuries

                  eternal antagonists drink sweet anger

                  in defeat.

      Play with the universe in abstract contention; wind

                  the thread from forgotten ancestors and

                  touch destiny waiting.

      See beyond sacred scrolls, search beneath

                  man’s wanderings.

      Touch destiny waiting.

      WATCHERS

      Others’ roles become our own.

                  We’re only watchers.

      Today, coast to coast, marks

                  the day when history starts.

      A fresh clean page turns where bitter

                  anger washes away maturity.

      Youth settles in and lights turn on.

                  Today, we’re only watchers.

      MIMUS

      The eye of Mimus stares

                  at the brother moons of

                  Saturn Colenus Thetus.

      Cold bitter Thetus at -200 degrees centigrade

                  split and re-pulled together to sleep with

                  Dione or Dione B.

      Twins lock together in secret pact.

      Rhea spins silently. Titan hides

                  under clouds, smokes hydrogen

                  cyanide, and burns methane, waiting

                  for life’s divine spark to ignite under

                  the watchful eye of Mimus.

      TOO SWIFT

      Death’s touch came.

      Fire danced on the fingertips of time.

      The touch was light.

      Bewildered life mused the touch.

      Too soft, too near, too swift,

                  time flickered and was spent.

      SALTPETER

      Saltpeter mined in the hills

                  thrust a force among the crowd to

                  crumple a child, halt a blessing,

                  wrench a cry from strangers.

      Liberation’s army or ancient plots travel with

                  unknown talents run amuck by misguided

                  anger mixed with saltpeter mined

                  in the hills.

      Young blood runs past ditches dug in haste

                  against unknown foes behind unseen faces

                  wrapped in hate to strangle hope and

                  engulf the peace.

      Surrender shattered days incomplete,

                  youth wasted by saltpeter mined in the hills.

      FOILED

      Half-heros foil

                  to fight to die

                  in unsealed sorrow’s battles.

      Half-cowards seek flight to take their lot

                  in counting hours lost.

      They smile their way

                  past bleak despair while over

                  countless nights others cry.

      CURTAIN CALL

      Shaded by inexhaustible paint, soaked by

                  generous bourbon, ancient vanity walks past

                  artificial mountains back-lighted in low

                  orange glows, canopied by postcard-blue.

      Ponderous dignity wrapped in rayon, chants the lines,

                  makes the moves, forgets the daylight

                  to keep the show in hopeful disrepair.

      Fame called then fled past wakeful nights too long

           

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