Welcome to Fran Alt's Bluedenim INK Linkwell !-- Writers links--Poets links-- Farm Links--Golflinks --- ----------- JAMIE JERRY MAGGIE BETH KELSEY MICHAELA JEN CHRIS ALI BUMP BUBBA NUMBER THREE CHARIS KEVIN BRITANY CECELIA

Bluedenim INK's Linkwell



It is October 7, 1995.
Inside the clubhouse a group of white women golfers glare at a TV screen
- the OJ Simpson verdict has just come in.
I watch :

The Quiet Riot

The looks on their faces
Pale faces
Faces pale
White
Pale white shock
Electric
Numbing
Emanating from recesses
Deep Within
Their white subconscious
Stomachs, nauseous
Feeling queasy
There is no justice
They murmur

In the room
There is one Black face
Black
Alone
A lone black listening
Pretending not to hear
Black ears
Should not hear what
Pale faces
Feeling pale
Whisper

One white face
Claims to have
Doubts
Others insist There is
No Doubt
This is a travesty
Of justice

No one asks
The black face
About it
They know
What black faces think

The black face
Buried
Pretending to be
Busy
Pretending not to hear
The whispers

Black shoulders shrug
Maybe he's guilty
Maybe not

The black face
Black
Slinks in the shadows
Thinking
Wondering who
Is being judged today

Faces pale
Pale faces
White
The verdict is in
OJ is
Free

The verdict
An edict
Devoid of tangible tongue
A gray cloud
Vague and elusive
Hovering over
Mankind

Blackface
Whiteface
Expressionless

A lone blackface
Lingers in sulky shadows
While whitefaces whisper

C 1996 Frances Fasano Alt


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Do you remember the genre of poetry(?) called Slam?

SLAM

I CAN DO THAT
WRITE A POEM - FOOL
FOOL
THE WORLD

IF METER MATTERS
LIKE KEEPING TIME
I'LL RHYME
IN SYNC
AND LINK
THE WORDS, LIKE PATTERS
OF DIMINUITIVE PEDALS
FROM THE HOUR OF
LONGFELLOWS CHILDREN

IS IT A CRIME - FOOL
TO FOOL
FOOL
THE WORLD

THE LITERATI?
THEY IN THEIR SNOBBERY
DESERVE
THE LIKES OF
SIMPLE POETS
WHO
WITH THEIR LIVES
CAN DO
NOTHING ELSE
BUT
SLAM

C 1993 F. Fasano Alt
3/6/93 ffa

10\07\1995 f. fasano-alt


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Daddy, Me and Mom
When Me and Mariann got together for a little philosophical nonsence:


Up Together

There's a hole in the sky
And a tear in my eye
And my legs are running so fast
I don't know how I'll
Make it through this
Day that hasn't past

I think in rhyme
And I haven't the time
To talk to people like you
'cause you're so dumb
And your brain's so numb
And you never know what to do

As a matter of fact
Your life's an act
And you play your
Part so well
That even though you aren't real
No one could ever tell

Now you take me I'm real you see
Not just a possibility
I live in a world that you don't know
Where life's eternal, and fools can't go
Where tears of sorrow do not exist
And all we have is happiness

We'd be up together you and I
If you could reach the hole in the sky
Or feel the tear
As it falls from my cheek
Or know me
From the words I speak

fini

Me and Mariann

circa 1970
C 1993 Mariann Fasano and Frances Fasano Alt


*********************************************************************************

**********************************************************************************

the hateful part of being a kid in the fifties:

. . .and puppy dog tails



I like Gene Autry
He likes to watch Roy Rogers
I like the Yankees
He likes the Brooklyn Dodgers
I want the blue things
He always wants the red
I can rhyme a poem
Who cares


We watch Roy Rogers and
the Dodgers
and get
the red ones
'Cause he's a boy
Mommy's boy


I wish Daddy were home

He gets to
Go out an' play
While I get to
Do housework
I'm older, yet
He
Stays out late
Why?
'Cause he's a boy

I wish I were a boy

Boys wear pants
And play ball
They have more
fun
My doll can drink
and pee,
so I can
change her diaper - wow

I can catch and hit
Better than him
He can't clean house
or change diapers
But he gets to do
Neat stuff
Like
Take out the garbage
'Cause he's a boy


C 1995 F.Fasano Alt
09\95 f fasano-alt


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A Soul


I have these thoughts on being me
A spirit through eternity
A soul whose karma must evolve
A mystery that I must solve



f. fasano-alt
10/22/95 ffa

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A boy and his beach
word here word here
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word here word here
Original Art Gallery By Toshi Sasaki



This is a game. A sonnet whose title reads down the first letter of each line.


If I Had Money Hon

If is a word that often speaks of dreams,
From things we want to places we might go.
If I had money Hon, I think you know,
How I would buy the world and all it's themes,
And give it to you wrapped up in moonbeams.
Delighting in the way your eyes would glow,
My heart would reap what your sweet love would sow.
Oft I can hear the devil as he screams,
Now sell your soul and I will give you all.
Eventually he knows that he will lose.
Your love and mine surpass the devil's call.
Holding your hand through life is what I choose.
Our love is yellow gold in mountains tall,
Nuggets of love, a glowing thought to muse.



This is a play on a pastoral poem:




Urban Love

Come live with me and be my love
And we shall all the pleasures prove
Of tenements and sidewalk cracks
Of crowded stores and subway tracks


And we will sit on steps of stone
Pretending that we are alone
And watch the hydrant's water fall
On ashpalt streets, where sewers call


The jeans you wear, your tattered shirt
The smile that hides your every hurt
The things you do, the way you feel
Please tell me that our love is real


And I will take your hand, and then
We'll share a love that will transcend
The blearyness of city life
Together, when we're man and wife


Your love is everything I own
But you will never be alone
While stars and moon shine high above
Come live with me an be my love


F. Fasano Alt 1980 http://www.simflex.com/users/altie/


Death Again


Again last night
A veil of numbness crept
From somewhere
In the top of my skull
d
o
w
n
Past my eyes
s p r e a d i n g
Into the base of my neck



It was heavier this time
THICKER
An unwanted sleep was
Grabbing Meeeee
DEATH
i thought
But consciousness returned,
To bring with it
A new veil of numbness
DEATH again
i felt no fear
i knew this death did not bring pain



Morning came
I found myself
ALIVE
For what?
To live
In fear of a different
more PAINFUL
DEATH death



3/3/93
f. fasano-alt


Esse


The blackness
The night
It never leaves
It hovers like an ominous cloud
It engulfs like a poison gas
It is the blanket of my life
It is the essence of me
I grasp at the braille that teaches me
my hands slide and my fingertips touch the bumps
The words
Words that S C R E A M
at me
Words Words Words
Author - your words are my existence
By your words
My vicarious essence
IS FOUND
With my fingers
I delve your galaxy
Author you give me - Your words
Without which there is
a void
A black H O L E
into which
a giant vacuum sucks my essence
And I am nothing
I see what You see
You are the author of my life
You let me touch mountains and oceans
You show me blues and purples
You nourish me with your words
You give my essence
The brightness
The light


Esse
I can see - just thoughs - just because
f. fasano-alt 8\31\95



Rambling on . . .


Vacuums pulling me into darkness
caves ending in a feint glowing light
the subway tunnel, the Lincoln tunnel
an underwater swim


A great crater out west - somewhere
a volcano asleep in Washington
space a bottomless pit
lost within an iceberg


Death be not proud
for thou art empty
the space within a cardboard roll
contains ALL


There is no meter
no rhyme in poetry
allusions to illusions of
mirth in Funerals


Life is death
death is life
in equal scale
unequal



circa 1980
Frances Fasano Alt

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