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

Time Was
Love Is
Ramblings Bonny Franke 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. First published by AuthorHouse 12/27/2011 ISBN: 978-1-4634-4106-7 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-4634-4105-0 (ebk) Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913218 Printed in the United States of America 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. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

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. Contents Time Was poems by Bonny Franke 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. 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. SCHEDULES On my schedule theres 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 theres 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 springs 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. Lets 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.

Lets 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 lifes 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 mans wanderings. Touch destiny waiting. WATCHERS Others roles become our own. Were 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, were 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 lifes divine spark to ignite under the watchful eye of Mimus. TOO SWIFT Deaths 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. Liberations 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 sorrows 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 and unforgiving sunlight. BUNDLED Frightened, a man sleeps in rags, clutches his past, and lies restless, bundled in fears. Knobby fingers clutch images of the good life once begun but faded.

Ragged sleeves sway in the cold but stay away from well-pressed seams. Dreams of laughter and sun-washed beaches flow through vague haunting dreams. Frightened, a man holds tight to pennies caught from sliding rainbows to sleep in rags. WINGED Double-tailed aircraft fly with matched wings hugged close against mountain thunderheads. Soaring specks practice skills for days of terror over awakening trees giving breath to naive June. Time was, the enemy clanked in armor forged in white heat, beaten by the anvils strength of patient might.

The specter tracks of contrail whiten blue of sky to find in haste the foe of fearful competition gone wrong. Soaring twins wing past the distance once kept by foot soldiers and cast a shadow on sleepy June. SILVER COINS Silver coins round frayed discs weighed in sweat wrapped in cold desire. Cold black streaks smelted for freedoms pay and gluttony greed. Lost in yawning gutters, saved for daily bread hidden under pillows. Silver coins find their way, tempt borrowing while Pharaohs lie and wait.