by: Francis Joseph LaManna
The amusement park isn't amusing,
I'd rather not be stopped while pursuing.
An echoing shout-
fills the space.
Remove your face from my face.
The laughing ceased,
I chose to ignore, unpleased,
I still see, I still hear,
though, still not in fear.
In keeping the power.
Now and at the hour,
I look no further than myself.
In this regeneration,
I created the ending.
I guess Juno fell and broke her crown,
Another hidden enemy-
wicked from the top down.
And here I am,
Still solo on the landing,
I'm hard as hell on myself,
but God isn't too demanding.
Moving past the stare,
I'm moving forward,
Working through another square.
I'm not popular,
not too many heard of me,
and one by one they continue deserting me.
But for the life of me,
I don't see the emergency.
If they only knew-
I altered the circle before turning thirty.
There is a connection,
Sixty-Nine, thirteen, and twenty-seven,
His pitchfork burns in hell,
but he reigns in heaven.
The fire still burns..
As the weather breaks,
and the scythe takes,
Let's see what this harvest makes.
Under pressure but alert as my body aches,
I'm up late and stay awake to catch these dirty snakes.
I have stake in the game,
I put a stake in my claim,
I put nine in a frame,
And said no, I'm not the same.
I was built for the one, but I run the four-hunnit',
My life was never over, I just had to go and hunt it.
Still, I'm not quite there, but I'm looking at the summit,
And I'm not stopping-if the world ends and the stocks plummet;
When it was hard to breath, I was given a life savor,
A life that's saved lives right to return the favor.
Wax on wax off with the moons' phases,
There's a flow to keep when the sky changes.
Old Secrets-they survive on through the ages,
I treat my past like a scrap book and turn the pages.
Into this harvest I'll be grim like reaper,
My inner sun shines as the planets say to keep her.
I guess it's time for me tighten up my belt,
Gods activating asteroids and Hera made her presence felt.
Her diadem shines as I watch the iron melt,
And the owl sees my card while I fold on the hand that's dealt.
I'm excited man,
There's lead in the frying pan.
It's God's plan.
As the weather gets cold,
There's no limit for the heat old lions hold.
Originality breaks the mold.
Let us reap!
Let us keep,
Our harvest and pursue transformation,
Through the darkness of February,
The month of Purification.
Every cute occurrence you blew off:
Positivity, nope- you'd rather scoff.
Every joke was ignored;
You were bored.
When I thought I was being funny, I wasn't,
When I got upset you said, you mustn't.
Nothing was right, everything was wrong,
Fake smiles were fun, but not for so long.
In denial-I carried on,
But every great morning was just blah blah blah.
All out of tricks so I thought it was serious,
Confused by the mood and this change so mysterious
Maybe it was me, but it wasn't unusual
At times of uncertainty I just needed approval.
But I couldn't get that,
and as a matter of fact,
You stayed persistent until you were sure,
I had given up fun and just closed my door.
Then it all changed.
While I'm down in misery,
You're suddenly happy and smiling considerably.
All I remember is us laughing together,
But I guess brining me down is what makes you feel better.
And you have the nerve to ask me what's wrong,
or tell me I'm different and I've been for so long.
Awe, why aren't you happy, you seem really quiet,
Is everything okay, you're never this silent.
I'm not sad and I don't have depression,
But you'll get offended if I answered your question.
How do I explain the events that transpired?
If you really don't know you'll just say I'm a liar.
But you know-and I've said all I can say,
Your play for control keeps ruining the day.
In its correlation to roots and home,
Way before the ancients of Rome.
Up in the sky, when most grow weary,
Our source of light and lesser luminary.
And now, I start to think,
Toeing the edge of crazy's brink,
While looking at the wheel's fourth zone,
Where the Moon rules, is a house called home.
Is the thought that unstable,
or so demented like Cain killing Abel-
similar to heaven's conjunction at noon,
The Imum Coeli conjuncts the Moon.
The answer, perhaps,
has been in front of us right-
we didn't come from a planet,
We stepped out of the light.
-Francis Joseph LaManna
Out of my asshole,
to where you once came.
Out of my asshole,
save yourself to blame.
Unexpectedly, out I said,
For if you dare look,
you’ll see my shit on your head.
That shooting yesterday at the Sunoco 7 Eleven was the second gas station/convenient store shooting in Lehigh County in less than a year. The other ended up becoming a murder-suicide at the Rt. 100 Wawa in Breinigsville nine months ago.
It’s a Saturday morning, and this is kind of like a freestyle post me. Sometimes rappers freestyle, and you can do it as a writer to. Even if you have no material in mind-just start writing.
Poetry-A Freestyle Session
There’s not a reason for either.
Your path is waiting Keeper.
Nature is your teacher.
It shall all become clear.
it seems out of reach,
but it’s not.
Stop and think on this,
It’s a decision,
That’s all it is.
Enjoy your Saturday everyone.
Under a moon that’s full,
While the ocean currents pull,
I call out to thee,
Northern light and element earthly.
Strengthen your arc,
and encircle accordingly.
Light and air-awaken to feast,
Awaken our circle when you come from the east.
Southern fire-I hold you so dear,
The temperatures rise the closer you near.
Coming around now, so close to completion,
Waters flow in and rule out depletion.
And I break;
to fill up my goblet,
to burn up some incense,
to look up.
My new book, Smorgasbord 3 The Final Platter begins with this poem. I posted it on here a little while ago, but I decided to bring it back as a sneak preview of what’s to come. Enjoy!
The ticking of the clock,
plays a trance-like melody,
in my mind;
a beautiful symphony.
An orchestra in tune,
perpetuating the mood,
of energetic-never ending high;
though a portrait of time,
tells us it’s noon.
Anxious thoughts and reality loom,
Oh how beautiful,
that circle filled with numerals;
yet-it ticks and ticks until our funerals.
Time can be harsh,
though we forget,
in the memories of emotional marsh,
the clock is ticking.
Time is running out.
I’m tired of going digital;
giving away my thoughts has become habitual!
So now, I keep my thoughts hidden.
Whenever I feel driven,
Whenever I break from living,
I indulge in the way of the heart.
Paper and pens;
meditation through a spiritual lens.
It might take a ritual to solve this riddle!
We live in a world that’s magical;
the symbolism leans mystical,
though it’s hard to explain,
I will, and I’ll make it plain.
The Goddess is triple,
The stars twinkle,
and the state is blissful.
Think in terms that are simple.
-Francis J. LaManna
Spring time bloom,
Vibrant colors so bright.
A clear and crispy night.
In evening wear,
and a robe made of lace,
Shouts the personification of grace.
Her calls echo in space.
She calls for her love,
her passion burns,
for him, without, she’s lost,
until she turns.
He’s behind her with a flower.