FRANCIS MASAT

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

A Gift of Lilacs

"Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing..."
................ -T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland

Lilac switches come in all sizes,
thin ones that sting and cut,
thick ones that smart less,
but leave a wider, redder welt.

In my Mother's day, switches
and lessons came together.
One quickly learns to choose,
when ordered to cut a switch:

Is this the day to scream-dance
to thin and stingy cuts?
Or, is this the night to howl-jump
from larger, darker welts?

Today, I cut lilac blossoms,
but not without some thought.
I handle them gently -
they are for Mother's grave.

One Day

If you have time,
measure a cloud today.
Note its whiteness and its gray,
sum up its height and its width,
point out its direction and its speed,
seize on its building and its demise.

If you have time,
wonder if that cloud
came from a quiet pond,
from a pounding cove,
from a vaporized person.

If you have time,
look up today.
See where your breath goes,
where others have gone,
where you may surely go
one day.

Night Passage

As I roll out our drive, Red-tail circles weightless - watching still.
For years, she and I guarded springs, Indian mounds - secrets.
Wooded hills - beautiful in their isolation, their sparseness, span
a horizon that spreads until sunset demands the heavens to appear.
On the road, I again feel all the seasons that have played-out here.
Streetlights, like tiny starbursts, slide past my splattered window.
In an ambient glow of starry heavens, towns lie silent, gray.
Dreams and claims have aged, withered; their old scraps retain
a smell of bricks and moldy wood. Bells clang at a rail crossing,
their metallic hollowness fading into the pounding clacking rhythm
of rusted cars blurring reddish black, smelling of iron, oil, and coal.

Each dark and lonely overpass frames distance like a metaphor
for progress stalemated. Neon signs flash on vacant scenes
in an empty theater of reality. I breathe soggy bottomland air,
stopping for gas where mud dripped trucks tick away their heat.
My headlights flash trees framing empty lanes that fade to black.
White-striped miles Morse code past, reeling my thoughts back.
Traveling these routes traces the history of lives: birth, schools,
loves, loss, family, career, passings, and again - birth, schools, ... .

Old images churn, flooding everywhere, their brevity distorting.
Consciousness overflows, shaking my grasp as a shard of clarity
is about to surface. Unspeakable memories return, void of love
or anger. They too jumble, finally fading, surrendering to fatigue.
Ignoring signposts, I thrust my reflections past rules and history,
beyond convention, trying to form new paths. I succeed in part,
peeling my heart in layers, the effect searing my eyes with tears.
They are more welcome than raindrops on a passing dusty field.

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