Through the Fence

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and William Faulkner
1999

Through the fence,
Between the curling flower spaces,
I could see them.
I could hear them talking.
A sound meaningless and profound.
I stood in weeds
And we looked at one another for a while.
There was a sense of water,
Swift and peaceful above secret places
Felt, not seen, not heard.

When I’m gone it will be easier on you.

I could still hear the clock between my voice
Ceasing as if cut off with the blow of a knife.
I don’t suppose anyone ever deliberately
Listens to a watch or a clock.

He looked at me
Then emptied everything out of his eyes.
I couldn’t stop it.
I knew if I tried to stop it I’d be crying.

I could hear it getting night.
It was like a door.
Only it wasn’t a door.
Then it was gray.
Then it was gone—
Beyond the broken, infrequent slanting of sunlight.

If things just finished themselves.
You’d think misfortune would get tired.
But then time is your misfortune.

I see now I must pay for your sins as well as my own.

The Man Who Never Was

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Tim O'Brien
2004

He tied on a compress and told me to ease back.
In a way I already knew what was coming,
like staring into a black crystal ball, or being
inside a book nobody’s reading.
Way too real!

I kept waiting for the pain to hit, but
I didn’t feel much. A throb, that’s all.
Back then it felt like a miracle--
a pinprick of absolute lasting light--
a dreamy edge of impossibility to it.

We looked at each other, both of us
trying to pretend it was nothing special.
He shrugged and gave me a stare that lasted all day.
A secret smile, as if to warn me about something.
That’s the last thing I’ll ever see, I thought,
wishing I could do things I couldn’t do.

I heard cartoon music and figured my war was over.
Happy trails, he said and almost hugged me.
By then I was gone with the pain.

You’ll get used to it, they told me.
He’s the man who never was.

But then they don’t understand history.
They don’t understand that in the dark,
where things get soft,
the dead sometimes smile
and sit up and
return to the world.

And the smile
never goes away . . .

Sleeping Dogs

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Charles Dickens
2000

You and me know what we know, don’t we.
We know our station. Ashes and dust.
It’s a mad world. Mad as bedlam!
Insanity or intoxication.

And I know what I am—a shapeless thought.
(I need be to get through this world at all.)
I wallow in words only meant to mystify.
My eyes, not being so much under control as my tongue,
send meditations to flight with an indescribably sensitive
pleasure, that very little would change to pain

Have you seen her?
She has spread a little pair of wings
and flown away before my eyes.
I ask pardon of that lady in my heart.

Why has she done nothing to set things right?

You know my motive--to bring forgiveness.
But it comes from my wicked hand,
thus the lessons of my life have been perverted.
I thought it possible that I could truly mourn for one
and not have some part in the grief of all.

Such is the first mistaken impulse of an undiscliplined heart.

But no matter. No matter!
When I say I’ll do a thing, I do it.
I do my duty. That’s what I do.
A weak-minded person may do what wonderful people may not.

Think of me at my best if circumstances should ever part us.

And tell me how you fare to feel upon your lone lorn journeys!
There’s time enough. Don’t hurry.
And don’t take refuge in a lie!

The time has past. I let it go by.
I had no conception of the wound I would droop beneath.
It died upon my lips
and there I leave it.
No one has ever raised the curtain since.

Ah, but let sleeping dogs lie----
Who wants to rouse ‘em?

Let Us Tear Life

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Pablo Neruda


Oh, sleeper in my shadow—
like the door to a secret tunnel,
every thing carries me to you.
Why did you pour your tender fire
so quickly over my life’s cool leaves?
Your roots pierced my chest
and suddenly my heart was filled
with fruits and sounds.
In your life I see everything that lives.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know.
Let us tear life from the rupture
that is breaking our hearts.
Invincible love, hide me
in your arms where my heart burns and rests.
Your hands and mine will steal the stars.

Hit or Miss the Moon

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Robert Frost
2002

Whatever you do tonight,
Come and fetch me.

Drop everything!

Burst into my narrow stall
as reckless as the best of them tonight.

Let’s go up on the hill and scare ourselves.
mix sparks with stars.

Is it too late to drag you out?

Come, if you’re not afraid to
hit or miss the moon.

Here a Star, There a Star

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Emily Dickensen
2002

Old fashioned eyes--
not easy to surprise.
I have found the phrase to every thought I ever had,
but one!
How still the riddle lies.
Here a star, there a star--
Can I expound the skies?
The moon slides down the stair.
The sunrise leaves the door ajar.

Ah friend! You little know how long the angels
labored diligent at this celestial wick.

Take care, for God is near.

Ever After

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and U2
2001

A picture in gray--
all the colors bleed
into one, and what you don’t
know you can feel somehow.

Gypsy heart,
to touch is to heal--
to hurt is to steal.

I’m finding out all the things
I’ve been talking about.

Learn to kneel if you want to kiss the sky.
Lend a hand in return for grace.
Shed a tear and then let love go.

Ever after is a long time.

Alot Like Never

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Tim O’Brien
2001

It’s time to be blunt—
Heat up the truth. Make it burn,
get the hell out of the way and let it tell itself
cause here, man, every sin is fresh and original.

None of it happened,
but it was as real as anything.
A kind of falling.
Boom-down.
Higher and higher—The rockets red glare.
Pure knowing.
A lot like yesterday.
A lot like never.

It’s not a game. It’s a form.
A new wrinkle. Fine lines.
And it requires a perfect balance between
crazy and almost crazy—where things come together,
but also separate.
The distinction is important.

There’s a moral here.
There’s a definite moral here.
Once you’re alive, you can’t ever be dead.
And it will always be that way.

What Rot!

A pashtich poem by Debbie Frampton and Ernest Hemingway
1998

The old grievance.

It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy.
I thought I had paid for everything,
but I had been getting something for nothing.
That only delayed the presentation of the bill.
The bill always came.
You gave something up and got something else.
A simple exchange of values. That was morality.
No, maybe that was immorality.
I didn’t care what it was;
all I wanted to know was how to live in it.


They say it’s important to discover graceful exits.
Swell advice.

Try and take it sometime.
Awfully easy to be hardboiled in the daytime,
but at night it’s another thing.
There’s that feeling of going through something that has happened before.
Something I had been through, and that now I must go through again.
Awfully amusing, but not too pleasant.
You know it makes one feel rather good
deciding not to be a bitch.

Damn noble!
Isn’t it pretty to think so?

What rot!

The Bitter Lapse

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Edgar Allen Poe
1998

The sole intent of my somewhat childish experiment
had been to deepen that first singular impression.

Yet as I gazed upon him, I shuddered, not knowing why.
Perhaps it was the hideous dropping off of the veil—
The vacant eyes, like windows—
The paradoxical law of sentiments-

There are combinations of very simple natural objects
which have the power of thus effecting us.
Still, this power lies beyond our depth.

A mystery all insoluble.

I struggled to reason off the nervousness
which had dominion over me.

I could not account for such feelings,
nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies
that crowded upon me as I pondered them.

There arose out of the pure abstractions
an intensity of intolerable awe.
A gradual wasting away--

a settled apathy—

The bitter lapse
into everyday life.

Grace

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and U2
2002

The sky falls--
takes the blame--
covers the shame--
I’m strung out like a guitar
and you don’t even look away.

I wasn’t jumping --it was a fall.
Just trying to find a decent melody--
trying to follow the scatter of light.
But love has to be believed to be seen.

human nature

The sun circles,

round and round--

liquid motion,

silent sound.

Finite fumbling

shadows spill--

flight of fancy,

almost real.

Sky is tipping,

space gives birth,

moon is tripping

over earth.

Stars go reeling,

senses sprawl--

human nature

takes

the

fall

rhetoric

2007

and now
behold,
verily
i
say unto you,
wo!

and i say

unto you,
thou shalt
hearken!

and i
speak unto you again
exceedingly
insomuch
that now ye know.

know ye not?

do ye not suppose
all these things?

yea, ye know!

nevertheless,
notwithstanding
thus saith i,

wherefore
inasmuch as ye would,
and i desire

that ye should,
it must needs be--

for i have spoken it
and it shall come to pass.


NoTe: notice in this poem nothing is capitalized. that's an important clue to uncovering my attitude about rhetoric in religion.

The Bathroom Door

The bathroom door is basement black and locked.
I can see it from my bed. I wait and watch
the yellow slip of light beneath the door.
I know a secret, it winks to me.
When I can’t wait any longer,
I slide out of bed and tap on the door.
Daddy, I say, can I come in?

Daddy?

Just a minute, he says, but it’s not his voice.
I’m eight years old and I wet the bed.
It’s better than the forever hallway,
past the fire-breathing furnace
and up the freezy back porch stairs.

I’m nine, I’m ten, I’m eleven.
My mom is whispering and
tapping at the bathroom door.
Yellow light blurs into black as
I squeeze my eyes shut tight.
The light can’t keep the secret anymore.
I found it in the towels.
I needed a cape so I could save the world,
but the secret was hiding in the towels.

I’m twelve and there’s a hammer.
Let me in! my mom screams.
So help me, God, I’ll break this door down!
The yellow light holds it’s breath for the blow.
Give me the needles!
She’s hitting and crying and hitting.
You . . . promised . . .You
promised.

I should have kept the secret in the towels.
I could have saved my daddy.

I’m fourteen and there’s a hole in the bathroom door.
The doorknob is gone. My daddy is gone.
We stuff the hole with paper and hope
no one comes in.