The Riveter

The Riveter – Francis Whitesell (c) 11-05-2014 The riveter shivers, the riveter sighs; the riveter wonders who cares if she dies, while choruses bellow, the truthless benign that some things must never be, never be thine. Build me a palace of copper and steel, of magnets and secrets and listless appeal of thunder and music…

On a hill by a tree

On a hill by a tree Copyright (c) 2006 Francis Whitesell There is dawn by the tree on the hill where the wind blows down on the faces of all that I’ve seen And I know that they’re looking for the things still worth finding there down in in the dark where I have never…

Motion

Motion Francis Whitesell Copyright © 2014 In the observer’s dream, there was no solid matter. There were only projectiles, always in motion, at different speeds, and on different trajectories. And he was a projectile, a sum-of-forces, on a unique trajectory, one complex enough that the sum itself had created him: “him”, not an object, static…

Just the Way We Did

Just the Way We Did © 2013 Francis Whitesell Remember that day on Dutton Road, the two of us, the pine tree, just before dinner? You pushed yourself, you reached the next branch, and then you sat there, unsure. You couldn’t get down, and you told me, and I sat below you and waited, and…

The hole in my ceiling

The hole in my ceiling © 2013 Francis Whitesell There’s a little hole in the ceiling where I always look when I’m lying on my bed. I’m not really sure how it got there, or where it goes. To the vent space between floors, I guess. But it makes me feel like there’s a secret…

From A Train Window

It’s at least half past midnight, and the train is stuck between Cincinnati and home wherever that is. Wherever we could be. Outside the glare of warm windows water of an unknown river current rushes around the steel and concrete of a mid-west power plant. Ripples in the current undulate like a clearly unnecessary Latinate…

Constellation

Constellation Copyright © 2011, Francis G. Whitesell In leaves and nets of seaside grass suspended over clay-red cliffs, in memory of nakedness above the breakers beach and bluffs, the sunset leads between the trees a pair of pairs of wandering eyes who, bound to see each other tied by glances peek and peer and hide…

This Weak and Idle Theme

This Weak and Idle Theme Copyright © 2010, Francis G. Whitesell GLO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-RIA, IN EXCELSIS DEO; GLO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-RIA, IN EXCELSIS DE-E-EO. The belltower rang. Once, twice, thrice, and again and again, and again, and again, and again and again and again. It was the last Sunday of Michaelmas term, and Robert Eugene Wellings was listening to the…

Hourglass

Hourglass Copyright © 2010 Francis G. Whitesell   Up high above the oak and tide a house to dream and see beyond, where I have talked to crystal balls around the fields in blind man’s bluff. Memorial undertow and fond inheritance let me see inside;   inside the whirling Yogi’s eyes, in earnest hope to…

“Owed to Richard Rowan”

“Owed to Richard Rowan” – 13 November 2010 Copyright © Francis G Whitesell 2010 meandering the Rue St James, in Joyous Guard of all the risk of new Sir Tomeless Melior, ‘e will chance a lot what’s given here. I sing of legs and of a dame (although I just forgot her name); what’s in a dame?…

Four Hundred and Thirty Stars

Four Hundred and Thirty Stars Francis G. Whitesell © 2006 The day was almost over. The world was turning a dull, sheenless silver, and as the ineffable juxtaposition of sun and moon began, thousands of people flipped little plastic switches on their walls, and felt twinges of joy as their world brightened illogically. Every night…

Science Fiction

Science Fiction Copyright © 2010, Francis Whitesell You are reading a story. You know it is a story, because I have told you it is. That is one of two differences between a story and a conglomerate of lies. [There never was a boy named David, and he never met a girl who just had that…