Francis Don Daniels's Page

Life maker,
life taker,
towering phoenix on high,
magically over the oceans you cross
with powers no one can deny.

Alone at the bow
I stood there in awe-
bound by your imposing form,
rapt in uncertainty
as to what I saw
and feelings equally torn.

Dreaded serpent from Hades
whom ancient mariners did flee?
Or, Protector of the Seas
and beacon to guide me free?

Or, a child's dream, albatross-
imagination's pilot afar.
You deathfully sank
into the flaming sun
and divinely rose
as the evening star… Continue

In Autumn when leaves
are gold and rust
no longer green

stifled
by null,
corrosive air

aflame
in burning hue
of vitriol sky

I ponder
the scheme of life
the cycle of birth-decay

and quietly recall
old dreams
once made.

Like fallen blades
upon the earth
were swept away

wind-blown
till out of reach
and faded with acid time.

But dreams
unlike leaves need
no season to bear

no rain
or sunbeams
or ethereal air

the soil
from which they spring
neither clay nor humus black

but,
from a spiritual… Continue

Perhaps
it was forgotten
you once were free.

Calloused
by false hopes
and dreams.

And now set
by that glue
to planet Earth routine.

No longer to give notice
to the signs that read:

"No Loitering"
( City Ordinance Title 03.6732 Sec. C ).

Recession Blues.
Languishing 401K.
Home values upside down.
Credit lines slashed and
tight money flows-

Laid off
from company downsizing
to find you are too educated
for the job market,
or considered by others
too "old"

And foreclosure looms.

Space is for… Continue

( Author's Note: This writing is inspired
by the philosophical works of L. Ron Hubbard.
Thank you, Ron, for your love and dedication
to helping mankind. "Namaste".)
~~

I am touched
by your aura
as with magical music
and mystical wind.

Thousand of miles
are but a grain
of sand.

So it's you
who make the seasons,
the earth which flows
from the mouth
of the sea
to a perfect rose
and majestic peaks.

( Even these words I write
are words written
with beauty
which is your hand.)

Spirit of Wine
with… Continue

Fog thickened
like soup
over the island.

Was it still evening,
or had morning risen?

Silence can be
an artful teacher,
but just now
it leaves me lost.

Somewhere in the catalogue
of my dreams I've neatly filed
in moments of time and place
the hope to arrive-
somewhere-
like the crest of the Matterhorn
or strands once strolled
along wind-swept seas
who speak in tongues
of vanished lands.

Where now the dream's renewed
and I, anxious to repair,
when this time, this chance
will prove to be
the lo… Continue