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Francis Scudellari: Art, poetry, life
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My personal storehouse of creativity |
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Thursday, 11 September 2008 18:00 |
Welcome to my site! You'll find here a storehouse for the fragments of my creativity. I've included collections of my color-pencil sketches and poetry, and there's also a smattering of short fiction and essay. You can also check out my blog Caught In The Stream, which I'll continue to maintain as a place to post current work and personal updates.
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 02 July 2009 15:19 |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 18 June 2009 08:19 |
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I.
Two souls, twin lives conceived
and long dwelling
within the mingling storm
of light and dust
that delicate danced 'round
goddess sisters'
gaseous split-crown heads
until cast out,
paired molten tears spit-shed
in the blinking
of ageless eyes, not angry
but grown weary
with the weight of shared lids |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 02 June 2009 21:51 |
Seven hundred nineteen
clocks plus one new-bought she
loving cups in pale hands
before it takes its time-
saved place among pieces
atop two dozen shelves--
blond-skinned particle board
framed by squat book cases
that dust-free stand before
her, patient for this day
Clocks with wood-grain finish,
cased chrome, or dyed plastic;
topped with never clanked bells
or kid's cartoon figures--
an endlessly spun chase
round faces, oval, square
her favorite tight sealed
within black cat's belly;
tick-waved paw, twitch-tocked tail
each short minute stroking
It's a lucky number
A very special time
When you can make a wish
For anything you want, and
it will come true , some day...
The mothering low words
circling back, she surveys
her measures collected
for four and twenty years
stretching from right to left
Each now properly wound,
batteries freshly charged
to call up magic twice
this day, filling it full
of her wished for minutes
Whether old-time displayed
by mismatched bandy lengths--
pointed, ornate, and spare
that sweep ever forward
through inward notched halos;
or mechanical marked
between flipping black tiles;
or more modern counted
by re-posed bits of eight
light arranged from behind
Oh. But is it the time
that's very magical,
or the sight of numbers
all lined up, standing tall,
each pointing at the sky?
Her childish answer swings
upon her as she twists
the gray ridged, clicking knob
of the purchased blue cube
set one minute before
its right-neighbor to form
a well-tuned chorus of
seven hundred twenty
clocks to barbed-ripple read
eleven: eleven
This last one pushed into
its first awaiting slot
she sits, slow scans the shelves,
a day's worth of wishes;
the same whispered, wanting
words that she will repeat
one thousand, four hundred
forty times, in constant
chanted hope for lives lost
by four and twenty years |
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Last Updated on Wednesday, 03 June 2009 10:36 |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 02 July 2009 15:17 |
II.
Their arced escape route etched
with quick silver
on velvet, ends tap'ring
to finger tips
that will trace a path back
one day, but now's
distance exhausted, they
splash in blue soup,
swirled till cooled in a cup
of moth'ring clay,
and, nourished on forgetting,
grow buoyant limbs
to slowly drift apart |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Friday, 12 June 2009 04:05 |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Monday, 11 May 2009 08:33 |
I.
He
put on
cocky watch
towering stands,
long-reaching throws off
shadows of square-cut limbs
loose-draped in rough skin
to guard against
dawn's thick air
creeping,
chilled
his own
flagging strength
braced by sipped fire
sharpening fifty
paired eyes that monstrous ring
his still, uncrowned head
each visited
by just one
moment's
sleep
well-timed
in rolling
blinked-lid cascade
to stop-frame project
scenes from dewy-green fields
keeping a beast for
the jealousy
of too fast-
fading
robes
II.
She
ill-changed
by light, blind
rage-punishment
unearned for baring
another's intentions,
his wont of too much
never sought for
or seeking
her was-
nymph's
once so
sleek, well-drawn
lines pulled wide, smudged
till broken, transformed
to a dark spotted bulk
she awkward carries
on four legs, mind
always led
circling
back
tethered
to a gnarled
soil-clutching tree
with taut-stretched chain's forged
gray, heavy iron links
slow raked, in-cutting
circumscribed arcs
through bitter,
thinning
blades
III.
He
a-fog
spies early
morning ride in
rosy on curled backs
of a low-rising mist
pushed by one errand-
spelling breeze's
deceitful
lyrics
blow-
whispered
to drowse with
threaded tunes spun
by humming needle-
sharp leaves, olive clatter
drummed as owning twigs
knock, lulling shut
his hundred
eyes, close-
kept
charge loosed
in whiting
flash, thunder's clap
and Argus quick-caught
by writ-mischief's lean hands
foiling-wrapped within
tight, re-coiled tales
his never
slipping
free
IV.
She,
twisted
metal dragged
in clanked tangle
behind, unguarded
ahead, halting first steps
toward un-purposed
paths that spoke out
a blurred wheel
beyond
her
sentry's
fallen-trunk
malodorous
conjuring descent
of cloud effacing pests
tasked by sky-seated
mistress to goad
Io on
knowing
words
non-sensed
by veined beats
a buzzed babble
of wing-confused flight
that leads still too-cowed thoughts
in mad-apparent
earthbound wander
to find love
birthing
time
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Last Updated on Monday, 18 May 2009 21:13 |
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Copyright © 2009 francisscudellari.com. All Rights Reserved.
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