Tag: Joshua C. Frank

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Peter Pan’s Soliloquy

In Never Land, each sunrise brings anew
A day of play and laughter to pursue.
I meet the mermaids, swim in their lagoon,
And dance with Indians beneath the moon.
I once fed Captain Hook to Crocodile!
Still every time I think of it, I smile.

Yet sometimes, when I lie awake in bed,
The Milky Way in glory overhead,
A little voice within says, “Peter Pan,
Would life be more fulfilling as a man?
To grow in Wendy’s world, to take a wife,
With whom to join to make and raise new life?”

The fairies died; some new ones came along,
Continuing to troll their endless song.
I’ve played in Never Land two hundred years,
From simple hide-and-seek to dodging spears,
And yet, I’ve never aged a single day.
Am I a creature solely made for play?

My friends abandoned me. I live alone.
They all moved in with Wendy, soon were grown,
And one ran off, with Wendy as his bride.
They soon had children, then grew old and died.
Time massacred them all, but me, he spared
So I could see him murder all who cared.

I played with Wendy’s daughter, but she grew
And then forsook me for a man she knew.
Thus, even I, who never have to grow,
Must stay behind and watch my friends all go.
How dear the price to live this life of ease,
To fly, to play, just doing as I please!

I stare back up, as changeless as the stars.
Leave Never Land for realms of men and cars?
To slave away each day, no time for play?
I can’t. I have no choice. I have to stay.
Yet still, I ask: would it be best for me
To go, to be a better kind of free?


First Dealings with Death

The schoolchildren skipped and scampered at play.
One girl stood gravely, gazing down,
Holding out hands, where a hidden thing lay.
I went to see why she wore such a frown.
A fallen pre-fledgeling! She’d found a bird,
Hatched on high, now wholly perished.
She stood like a statue and stared, not a word,
At the bare little bird she blindly cherished.

I stood beside the schoolgirl of five
And mused and mentioned: no more could we do.
She kissed it to cause it to come alive
And wake (for this worked in Snow White, she knew)—
No definite dealings with death before.
She finally stopped fighting its fate: it had died.
When the recess bell rang, she roosted no more;
She buried the bird, said goodbye, walked inside.

“Peter Pan’s Soliloquy” and “First Dealings With Death” were first published by The Society of Classical Poets.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives in the American Heartland.  His poetry has been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, The Lyric, Sparks of Calliope, Westward Quarterly, New English Review, Atop the Cliffs, Our Day’s Encounter, The Creativity Webzine, Asses of Parnassus, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, All Your Poems, Verse Virtual, The Asahi Haikuist Network, LEAF Journal, and the anthologyWhose Spirits Touch, and his short fiction has been published in New English Review, The Creativity Webzine, and Nanoism.

“Ghost Girl” by Joshua Frank

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

One sunny May, I ran to play,
When I was twelve years old,
Upon the hill. I miss her still—
A girl with curls of gold
In ribbon ties, big sky-blue eyes,
And waving, dark-red dress
Soon ran my way and asked to play—
How could I not say yes?

“I’m Beth,” she said. “My mother’s dead;
I’m hiding from her ghost.”
I thought, “A shame, her gruesome game,”
But soon I was engrossed.
We laughed and played along the grade,
Cavorted up the hill,
And soon rolled down, clothes turning brown,
Collapsed, and then lay still.

Then Beth and I stared toward the sky,
Then wrestled, then caressed,
And very soon that afternoon,
Our love began the rest.
We hoped our playing would one day
Give rise to married bliss.
I gazed into her pools of blue;
We leaned in for the kiss.

A woman’s ghost gave off the most
Horrendous, ghastly chill.
We stood upright in cold and fright;
Her ghost-hand reaped the kill.
I saw Beth die. Her ghost stood high
And quickly shed its shell.
Her ribbons fastened to the grass
As down her body fell.

Both, hand in hand, flew off the land.
Beth’s ghost was forced to go
Away from me like Annabel Lee,
But where, I’ll never know.
Then Beth up high bid me goodbye;
She waved as she looked back.
The two ghosts flew into the blue,
And everything went black.

I felt Mom shake me wide awake;
She’d found me on the hill.
“Are you all right?” She yelled in fright.
I sat up feeling ill.
I told her of my one-day love
And how she met her death.
My mother deemed it all a dream
And said there was no Beth.

So I believed I’d been deceived
And never met the lass,
Until I found, upon the ground,
Her ribbon coiled on grass.
The ghost who took her didn’t look
And left it unawares.
I picked the band up in my hand
And three blonde, curly hairs.

“Ghost Girl” was first published by The Society of Classical Poets.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives in the American Heartland.  His poetry has been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, The Lyric, Sparks of Calliope, Westward Quarterly, New English Review, Atop the Cliffs, Our Day’s Encounter, The Creativity Webzine, Asses of Parnassus, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, All Your Poems, Verse Virtual, The Asahi Haikuist Network, LEAF Journal, and the anthology Whose Spirits Touch, and his short fiction has been published in New English Review, The Creativity Webzine, and Nanoism.

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Ode to the Cello

Fingered strings upon the cello
Vibrate by the moving bow.
Autumn tones in red and yellow
Echo from the to and fro
Through the eight-shaped box’s hollow,
Out the narrow, curving holes.
Oaken humming sounds must follow
Movements of the bow that rolls.

Violins sing high with tension,
Flutes all tweet like chirping birds,
Horn sounds bubble in suspension,
Clarinets speak notes like words,
Yet my ears prefer the cello
Over winds and higher strings.
None can sound as rich and mellow
As the notes the cello sings!

“Ode to the Cello” was first published by The Society of Classical Poets.


Story Time

The father, he sits on the couch with a book,
A child in each arm, and one more on his knees;
The mother, the same. All the other ones look
Content on the floor; he recites like a breeze.

He changes his voice for each character’s lines,
Whether child or lion or grandma or elf,
And changes his face as an actor designs
When quotation marks signal to be a new self.

As he acts, all the listeners picture the scenes
While the words are transporting them all many places.
The images show on their own mental screens:
The farmhouse, the castle, the characters’ faces.

These books are their movies, their history tome,
Their lessons in civics, religion, and right,
And bonding together with family at home.
Light fades while they’re listening, night after night.

After ten thousand nights touring narrative trails,
The decades have vanished, the children are grown,
And all look back fondly on a thousand great tales;
They continue the story-time nights with their own.

“Story Time” first appeared in New English Review.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives in the American Heartland.  His poetry has been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, The Lyric, Sparks of Calliope, Westward Quarterly, New English Review, Atop the Cliffs, Our Day’s Encounter, The Creativity Webzine, Asses of Parnassus, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, All Your Poems, Verse Virtual, The Asahi Haikuist Network, LEAF Journal, and the anthology Whose Spirits Touch, and his short fiction has been published in New English Review, The Creativity Webzine, and Nanoism.

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Night Driving

You’re driving back from out of state.
It’s late at night; home’s far away.
Your headlights on the interstate
Give fifteen feet of not quite day
In blackness from the cloudy sky,
From hills ahead, from hills you’ve passed.
Each big, black mountain flying by
Looks no different from the last.
The road’s white dashes lull your mind;
You sing along to stay awake
With every album you can find—
Night driving’s more than you can take.
A sign appears that lets you know:
Two hundred miles more to go.

“Night Driving” first appeared in Snakeskin.


The Billboard

It’s propped along the route I roll—
A squatting square against the sky,
Atop a sturdy metal pole,
To tell me what new thing to buy.

A squatting square against the sky,
It blocks the airy, fluffy clouds,
To tell me what new thing to buy
To follow the unthinking crowds.

It blocks the airy, fluffy clouds,
A big sign saying come and shop
To follow the unthinking crowds
To buy that brand of soda pop.

A big sign saying come and shop,
Atop a sturdy metal pole,
To buy that brand of soda pop—
It’s propped along the route I roll.

“The Billboard” was first published by The Society of Classical Poets.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives in the American Heartland.  His poetry has been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, The Lyric, Westward Quarterly, Atop the Cliffs, Our Day’s Encounter, The Creativity Webzine, Verse Virtual, and The Asahi Haikuist Network, and his short fiction has been published in Nanoism and The Creativity Webzine.

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Younger Selves

I have you leaning up against my side,
Our boys and girls around us on the couch.
Below the window, watching from outside,
Our younger selves, age twelve, crawl up and crouch.

The boy and girl each took a time machine,
The dial set to travel here today.
We met below that window, saw this scene,
And learned that you would be my wife someday.

The woman here whose head leans next to mine
Was also she who you’d grow up to be.
Our older selves thus showed the clearest sign:
No need to ask you, “Will you marry me?”

Back home, they’ll seek each other out and meet,
And here we are—the circle’s now complete.


Back to Sleep

In very early years, now far behind,
When I returned to earth at midnight deep
From nightmare scares within my frightened mind,
My mother rocked and sang me back to sleep.

I hid in bed from monster and from man
As blackened shadows seemed to slowly creep,
But once I finally to her bedroom ran,
My mother rocked and sang me back to sleep.

No sounds outside from people, beasts, or cars,
Her voice and arms would soothe me as I’d weep;
I saw her by the light of moon and stars—
My mother rocked and sang me back to sleep.

The happiest of moments in this was
When I collapsed into a sleeping heap,
Contented, safely dreaming, all because
My mother rocked and sang me back to sleep

“Younger Selves” and “Back to Sleep” were originally published by The Society of Classical Poets.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives near Austin, Texas.  His poetry has also been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, Atop the Cliffs, and The Asahi Haikuist Network, and his short fiction has been published in Nanoism.

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

Ballad of the Video-Game Hero

I rode in a mine cart, back home from the land
Of my favorite video game,
Through the pixelized prairie and vast seas of sand,
Over rivers of lava and flame.

The hero sat there in the rickety cart
Staring off into pixel-sky space,
Much older than on the game cartridge’s art,
With tears on his wide, wrinkled face.

“I’m leaving and never returning,” he said.
“Come listen and hear my sad story.
The princess and I, we hoped someday to wed,
Way back in the days of my glory.

“The dragon would kidnap the princess, then I
Would run through an obstacle course
To his minions’ dark castles in mountains up high
And take back their strongholds by force.

“My princess was in the last castle I’d raid;
I always found treasures to haul.
The Kingdom would welcome me with a parade
And a sumptuous banquet for all.

“But after some years, the dragon found ways
To undermine me and my quest.
He gave up the tactic of ‘pillage and raze’—
Bribed the people with treasure-filled chests!

“My princess then fell for the dragon’s top minion;
The Kingdom surrendered the war
And exiled me out of the dragon’s dominion—
They don’t want to be saved anymore!”

We came to my world, and we sealed up the gate
To the land of his video game.
My world is secured from his land’s tragic fate,
But I’m worried for us just the same.

For evil has bribed all the people here, too,
With shiny new gadgets galore.
No more do they care for what’s good and what’s true—
They don’t want to be saved anymore!


The Adventures of Verb

At six, I had a dictionary
Where I would meet a man named Verb,
Superb and quite extraordinary.
In every definition’s blurb,
Right at the finish, did while doing,
For example: “Verb chewed, chewing.”

In my mind, I saw Verb clearly,
With brown hair, mustache, thin, and tall.
“Verb smiled, smiling” sincerely
And “Verb told, telling” me of all
That “Verb did, doing” through his days
Within a sentence or a phrase.

“Verb ran, running,” “Verb swam, swimming,”
“Verb vaulted, vaulting,” “Verb gave, giving,”
“Verb bought, buying,” “Verb trimmed, trimming,”
“Verb flew, flying,” “Verb lived, living,”
One day I came real close to crying:
The day I read that “Verb died, dying.”

I looked up “verb,” and then I knew,
It’s not a man who lived and died;
It’s just a word that means to do.
Relieved, I put the book aside
And ran outside, where I “played, playing”
The things Verb did that still “stayed, staying.”

“Ballad of the Video-Game Hero” and “The Adventures of Verb” were first published by The Society of Classical Poets.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives near Austin, Texas.  His poetry has also been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, Atop the Cliffs, and The Asahi Haikuist Network, and his short fiction has been published in Nanoism.

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The Ballad of the Heroic Mother

a true story

A toddler into water fell
And sank as quick as rock.
At nine feet deep, she couldn’t yell
Or jump or thrash in shock.

Her mother heard the splash portend
Her daughter’s water grave;
She dove into the pool’s deep end,
Her little girl to save.

She grabbed her daughter, held her tight,
And with a presto prayer
Sprang toward the shimmering sun of white
To give her girl some air.

She held her up while sinking down,
And knew to save her daughter
That she herself might well soon drown
So inched toward shallow water.

Seconds before her lungs gave out,
Her face felt heat and air.
Her feet on ground, she breathed a shout:
“Success!” An answered prayer!

The whole crowd cheered the mom en masse;
She gained a hero’s glory.
She told the public-speaking class—
I still think of the story.


Signs of a Broken Home

“The bigger the issue, the smaller you write.  Remember that.  You don’t write about the horrors of war.  No.  You write about a kid’s burnt socks lying on the road.” -Richard Price

At the foot of the dumpster lay signs on the ground,
But I wonder why these were there lying around.

I would never have guessed that there someone had laid
The sign: “Home is where all the best memories are made.”

And a heartbreaking counterpoint next to it lay:
“We create our tomorrow by dreaming today.”

There are people who write of the horrors of war,
But a child’s burnt socks on a road will say more.

At the foot of the dumpster lay signs on the ground,
But I wonder why these were there lying around.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives near Austin, Texas.  His poetry has also been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, Atop the Cliffs, and The Asahi Haikuist Network, and his short fiction has been published in Nanoism.

Two Poems by Joshua C. Frank

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Alone Together

Narcissus, in the days of old,
Fell in love with his reflection.
He knew none greater to behold
And starved while staring at “perfection.”
Now we’re enamored with our phones
Reflecting worlds of our own minds.
We sit and stare, as still as stones,
Bound by the modern tie that blinds.

At beaches, churches, concert halls,
Campgrounds, parks, and county fair,
We shut ourselves in online walls
As at our phones we stop and stare,
Side by side with closest friends.
We shun and snub each other thus,
And our relationship descends
To that of strangers on a bus.


The Vacant Playground

The playground’s occupied no more
The wind blows sand against the slide
No playground chatter like before
The swings are swaying side to side

The wind blows sand against the slide
The ladder’s rusting bit by bit
The swings are swaying side to side
The wooden picket fence is split

The ladder’s rusting bit by bit
No hands now touch the sliding poles
The wooden picket fence is split
No balls are kicked through soccer goals

No hands now touch the sliding poles
No parents calling children’s names
No balls are kicked through soccer goals
The children won’t play screen-free games

No parents calling children’s names
No playground chatter like before
The children won’t play screen-free games
The playground’s occupied no more

“Alone Together” and “The Vacant Playground” were first published by The Society of Classical Poets.




Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives near Austin, Texas.  His poetry has also been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Snakeskin, Atop the Cliffs, and The Asahi Haikuist Network, and his short fiction has been published in Nanoism.