FRANCIS MASAT

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The Poetry Of...
Francis Masat...........................................................

Soft, Sun-Drenched Grass

Leaving a doctor's office,
I happen to glance up
to a sunny blue-sky day.
A blackbird lands
amongst high-voltage wires
and instantly pops off
on a graceful arced path:
its brief "free at last" flight.
More floating than falling,
it tumbles down
to soft, sun-drenched grass:
it is warm and dead.

The blackbird's arc stays with me.
I think fleetingly about people
who die suddenly - not knowing.
I also think of the blackness
just found floating in me.
In some tumbling way,
the knowledge gives me grace
to accept my arced descent,
to not be too surprised
by my last flight.
I pray that there will be
soft, sun-drenched grass.

The Point

Can honor be regained - repaired?
Can there be a truce within the heart,
a compromise that succors inner pain?

When Dad asked me
"Did you do it,"
I shook my head
and quickly looked away.

He did not ask again,
but I'm sure he knew.

It was a moment
of searing disappointment,
a pivotal betrayal
of my deepest self.

While the surface healed,
a scar remains within my heart,
pulsing at the point I lied.

Sour-Cherry Pie

A cherry pie made salty
with her silent tears of hope;
An offering of anguish -
of love for a husband dying.

I could but watch her bake
her first and only pie.
The pie saved only her mind
for one more fretful night.

Now all has passed, except
my love for cherry pie.
The crust and cherries are
my bread - my wine.

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