Creative of the Month: David Francis

David Francis

The Alley

While you’re sitting in your class

I’m looking at the grass

and trees that cover the hills

that tower above the sills

of the town in the valley,

my vantage point, an alley

quite shaded by an awning:

but my eyes are still yawning….

Where’s the scene supposed to be?

At its base a beige balcony

gives a trompe-l’oeil illusion,

and orange blossoms in profusion

out of an Etruscan vase

at the level of your face

and a fountain in the place

are the dead giveaways;

and then, on the nearer wall,

opposite of the mural,

perch grayish nudes in apses

with curtains where their sex is.

And now some near church bells play

that old campus melody

and apparently the light

has changed its path of flight

because the hills and every leaf

are pushed rudely into relief

as if needing to be restored;

I sit, amazed, and floored:

all the pimples and the pocks

and the cracks between rocks

obscure the colors and field—

the true texture is revealed.

***

About the Theater

I don’t know much about the theater.

I noticed a lot of old people

were sitting in the first and second rows.

It seemed like merely an occasion

for them to dress in finery and show:

it seemed like an anachronism.

There was a finely-dressed young couple

set apart, with space around,

like an island of hope.

Several old men had opera glasses

in this small repertory

about the size of a cinema balcony.

Everyone stirred and studied their programs,

sitting erect yet talking among themselves

and, as if scaling the dunes,

the first breakers came with the whitecaps,

the tiers hushed as the lights dimmed.

During the intermission

two women stayed and talked about New York.

The rest of the audience

streamed out to the lobby for drinks

they finished standing in back,

but the candy they sneaked in.

This is something discussed after the fact—

but it wasn’t as good, the second act:

why? Because it was drawn out,

a new character was introduced

who overacted and was no match

for the star. The other characters

didn’t reappear. And though there were

a couple of laughs, there were more coughs.

It needed work in the transition—

like two plays cut by an intermission.

Still, there were a couple of laughs….

The standing ovation, for my money,

lacked passion… but then I’m an amateur

and I don’t know much about the theater.

***

Café B (B-Café)

The café talk is full of cults

half-digested by young adults

with a term proclaimed as cant

sprinkled here and there, redundant

O see the profile of the sphinx

that muses and…almost thinks

O hear the mystical advice

How spaced the necromancer’s eyes

as he predicts your future flings

while shine his unwed finger rings

***

The Man Shot out of a Cannon

Now you’re gone…in the air

To forget you would take

something exceptional

I feel like I’m thrust along with you

into the air so blue…over the clouds

and I’m waiting with you in the airport

dragging your carry-on through the white halls

the journey suddenly insufferable

reduced to the mundane act of waiting

I wonder where you are

Some particles of me are with you there

but my body is in this bar

writing almost automatically

smoking a lot, drinking too much coffee

I won’t be able to sleep well tonight

my dreams will be troubled, my sleep will be light

and I will hear the alarm like a dream prop

like the man shot out of a circus cannon

who missed the net and hit the ground

and prepared himself mentally

knowing in advance that the shot was off

Now you’re gone…for a week

and these particles like the star points of a constellation

will hover cold gleaming in the night sky

or… they will fall like acid rain

back onto my disintegrated self.

***

Safe from the Rain

Now the air is white,

the tall bushes shivering

and, as if an oversight,

silver rain is javelining.

I had walked and walked

after the museum

and cut before I talked

to an answering machine.

I sat under a live oak

with a real-live breeze,

whose circumference of shade

was 360 degrees.

Pigeons made their sound

and walked upon the grass;

the branches swept the ground,

so immense the tree was.

Figures parked and filed

and posed for a camera.

I watched them as a child

must watch adult ephemera,

nodding toward a nap

and wanting oblivion,

and wanting a soft lap

to absorb my decision.

If it rains, I thought,

the crown seems waterproof:

it is so thick and taut

and stable as a roof

but then I looked up high

and saw the yellow sun

in its segment of sky—

so much for illusion.

I passed a corner house

with a yard sign: “To rent,”

hollowed and dangerous—

I gazed in wonderment

and followed the sidewalk

which petered to a rut;

strange stoops caused me to balk

where unkempt gardens jut

like a troubled mind

that cannot abide art

and wants to find

his own heart in her heart.

The watercolor sky

above a mullioned chalet,

like moist eyes ripe to cry:

in this café I’ll stay.

It’s dark here by the wall,

the fan stirs up the air;

I’ve never been here at all,

slumped in this cushioned chair.

***

Bio:

Born in Houston, Texas, David Francis has lived in London, Buenos Aires, and New York.  He has produced six music albums, one of poetry, Always/Far, a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and Poems from Argentina (Kelsay Books).  In addition, he has written and directed the autobiographical films Village Folksinger (2013) and Memory Journey (2018).  His verse and short stories have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies.  www.davidfrancismusic.com

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Setu, January 2021