Tuckford Bunny Press
© 2024 William Frank | Tuckford Bunny Press | Selden, NY |
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication or website may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database
or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
The
Fulgent
Requiem
is
a
book
of
poetry
that
sings
with
the
simple
ambition
of
Life
itself,
lush
and
louche
with
all
of
its
oof.
It
is
at
once
a
lyrical
celebration
and
lament
of
all
that
makes
us
human,
where
the
brightest
and
the
darkest,
the
violent
and
the
kind,
the
lovely,
the
lashing,
the
tragicomic,
in the end and always, defiantly intersect.
See sample poems below…
The Fulgent Requiem
$16.00, 95 pages
The Cancellation of the Plum City Phillumenists' Convention
It has to rain to make the Beauty of the world.
Some people have to have a really bad day
and we'll have to stay inside or catch a cold.
Water flooded the venue and I'm told
The Director and the food were washed away.
It has to rain to make the Beauty of the world.
Poor Cedric has a matchsafe made of gold
he's waited since September to display
but we'll have to stay inside or catch a cold.
Wren makes Jell-O coffins in a mold
when I suggested crafts like macrame.
It has to rain to make the Beauty of the world.
The umbrella sits in the corner like a scold
but it's no good when it's blowing sideways
so we'll have to stay inside or catch a cold.
Why do we get pneumonia or grow old?
Apparently, it's the only way.
It has to rain to make the Beauty of the world
and we'll have to stay inside or catch a cold.
Doomsday in the Bayard Arboretum
Let's spread my blanket beneath this tree
to make a checkered bed,
the terrible creatures overhead,
with cheese for you, cherries for me.
Though everywhere's the end of days
the fires, the suffering and the fear,
I have sandwiches, your favorite beer
and, before forever, cold green grapes.
The Moon with the Daffodil Stars
Summer is the secret Heaven youth disclosed.
The moon with the daffodil stars settles with light and joy
like the ketchup spot crescent on lilac-scented clothes
of romping girls the chases with the run of laughing boys
whose globe requires nothing but kittens in knapsacks,
the wings to fly them always who are small as french fries
beyond the edge of hearing their parents calling them back
where begins the land of phantoms, buttercups and fireflies.
Silver is a promise that Gold is somewhere good,
the moon will help us find what the sun makes sweet by day,
and follows where they run and jump in their favorite wood
throwing rocks at the moon as hard as they may
to test how strong they are, how dreaming far away.
I'm sure he'd catch them were there any hope he could.
a
The Night Castle of the Crocodiles
I wasn't as tall as the turnstiles
but in my pyjamas was taking the tour
that only happens midnight to four
at the Night Castle of Crocodiles.
In the hallway canals on left and right
they rolled over and over at their feast
of antelopes, zebras, wildebeests,
so I held my stuffed animals tight.
Normally dreaming at that hour,
I thrilled to the monsters, trumpets and towers
and was buying some pencils in the gift shop
when everything suddenly flashed to a stop
with screaming, trampling, the shout of the cops
because Miriam got herself devoured.
$3.99
Tuckford Bunny Press
© 2024 William Frank | Tuckford Bunny Press | Selden, NY |
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of
this publication or website may be reproduced, distributed or
transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or
retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
$16.00, 95 pages
The
Fulgent
Requiem
is
a
book
of
poetry
that
sings
with
the
simple
ambition
of
Life
itself,
lush
and
louche
with
all
of
its
oof.
It is at once a lyrical celebration and lament of all that makes us
human,
where
the
brightest
and
the
darkest,
the
violent
and
the
kind,
the
lovely,
the
lashing,
the
tragicomic,
in
the
end
and
always, defiantly intersect.
The Fulgent Requiem
The Night Castle of the Crocodiles
I wasn't as tall as the turnstiles
but in my pyjamas was taking the tour
that only happens midnight to four
at the Night Castle of Crocodiles.
In the hallway canals on left and right
they rolled over and over at their feast
of antelopes, zebras, wildebeests,
so I held my stuffed animals tight.
Normally dreaming at that hour,
I thrilled to the monsters, trumpets and towers
and was buying some pencils in the gift shop
when everything suddenly flashed to a stop
with screaming, trampling, the shout of the cops
because Miriam got herself devoured.
The Cancellation of the Plum City Phillumenists' Convention
It has to rain to make the Beauty of the world.
Some people have to have a really bad day
and we'll have to stay inside or catch a cold.
Water flooded the venue and I'm told
The Director and the food were washed away.
It has to rain to make the Beauty of the world.
Poor Cedric has a matchsafe made of gold
he's waited since September to display
but we'll have to stay inside or catch a cold.
Win makes Jell-O coffins in a mold
when I suggested crafts like macrame.
It has to rain to make the Beauty of the world.
The umbrella sits in the corner like a scold
but it's no good when it's blowing sideways
so we'll have to stay inside or catch a cold.
Why do we get pneumonia or grow old?
Apparently, it's the only way.
It has to rain to make the Beauty of the world
and we'll have to stay inside or catch a cold.
Doomsday in the Bayard Arboretum
Let's spread my blanket beneath this tree
to make a checkered bed,
the terrible creatures overhead,
with cheese for you, cherries for me.
Though everywhere's the end of days
the fires, the suffering and the fear,
I have sandwiches, your favorite beer
and, before forever, cold green grapes.
The Moon with the Daffodil Stars
Summer is the secret Heaven youth disclosed.
The moon with the daffodil stars settles with light and joy
like the ketchup spot crescent on lilac-scented clothes
of romping girls the chases with the run of laughing boys
whose globe requires nothing but kittens in knapsacks,
the wings to fly them always who are small as french fries
beyond the edge of hearing their parents calling them back
where begins the land of phantoms, buttercups and fireflies.
Silver is a promise that Gold is somewhere good,
the moon will help us find what the sun makes sweet by day,
and follows where they run and jump in their favorite wood
throwing rocks at the moon as hard as they may
to test how strong they are, how dreaming far away.
I'm sure he'd catch them were there any hope he could.
See sample poems below…
$3.99