The Frantic Antic
Views from a frantic angle.
9 Apr 2007
Miss apple pie skies.
Hey – Hey Miss apple pie skies – missin’ the large lonely.
Pick the joy while the joy is green, a comedy of bent cliches
Miss shadow dancer, and like while the iron’s hot.
Half- way sounds and half measure days, backin’ round and
Round to it, to what isn’t yours and what isn’t yours.
... for the lightest, slightest step away.
⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry
12 Feb 2007
empty minds
mileage may vary,
age, so often written in angry, violent ink.
the letters themselves tell the story, shaking
letters of old cursive style; if the shake doesn’t
give you away the Palmer Method will!
out early this day, out of gas and go that is,
so cover if you can, no point in looking the part.
the wear and tear find you along the way,
never in a good place, never in the right place,
never at the right time, always a bit pink of cheek.
the increasing value of time is the starkest part,
it was once so plentiful, now growing more
precious every day – hopefully; or simply wasted
in the shade of an empty mind.
⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry
14 Nov 2006
a life study in shadow
Straw days.
Hungry eyes.
Spider web fears, a life study in shadow.
Waiting – waiting, to revisit remembered glories not so glorious as memory would have had them be.
The glamour granted by time to fill the gaps of gray between, the grayer the journey, the brighter the past, the greater the distant deception.
Oh merciful time that misplaces so nicely what pains, that colors in pastel what once disappointed, that softens and rounds the jagged prisoners of wasted chances, what would you grant?
To let what lay behind gather significance in retrospect, like aging wine or gathering dust on sculptured art, as memories seeded for the future as one walks from day to day to day.
“I’ll do what I’d like to remember,” they say to themselves, if they collect there life for later as they go.
Let it be – Let it be.
⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry
3 Nov 2006
uninspired
a trail of uninspired days
all moths to the flame.
passing thoughts slipping,
with frustration, out of sight.
lives of wet leaves in the wind,
only to settle at the gutter’s edge.
clouds and shadows and a world
of rounded scraped corners,
squeaky hinges and flaking paint;
a settlement of sighs.
⇑ by Rick Silletti in Poetry