Poems of Ambiance

By Franklin Pillsbury

Poems of Ambiance is a rare and unique, the most beautiful unpublished poems in English language! Trancelike in quality, these visionary portraits sprang from their authors mind like Minerva from the brow of Jove. His only brainchild, this slim volume of eighty-seven poems was almost thirty years in the writing. As their title suggests, they seem to emanate from many sources-classical fountains, deeply ancient, from many lands. Their dreamlike ubiquity is pervasive, mysterious; astonishing the imagination with language that yokes heart and mind the way a sequoia redwood connects heaven with earth. Dont miss Poems of Ambiance!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781462814572

Franklin Pillsbury

Franklin Pillsbury lives in California and Arizona, the youngest of three children. He is fifty-three years old, unmarried, and a substitute teacher in the high schools. He has bachelors and masters degrees in literature. His father, a professor of education, took a family to live in Afghanistan for several years when Franklin was a boy. They also lived in Europe while the elder Pillsbury did research and writing for The United Nations. Franklin is a world traveler visiting places including Nepal, Iran, Mexico, the Soviet Union and Japan. He grew up in Southern California, a descendant of pioneers and early patrician family, absorbing the 1960’s and their aftermath. A westerner through and through, he’s at home in the saguaro deserts of Arizona or The Grand Canyon as well as Disneyland, Yosemite or the Sequoia redwoods. Once a surfer, he’s also Buddhist meditator reflecting on the Pacific influences there on the farthest shores of the known world-at the end of ancient line, he sits waiting there by the well of souls.

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Copyright © 2009 by Franklin David Pillsbury.

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Contents

On The Western Superstitions

Future Tourage

Saugean Profile

New

The Century Poem

Erotic

Eucalyptus

Wind Session

The Random

What Wanders In Me

Moon Queen

Windepths

Flowers

Confrontation The harsh sounds and airs which begin

with the reality and expectancy of creation Peering from

behind prisms of longed-for tears cast in days of severely

bronzed or dead reluctance to raining platinum half-notes;

loving the pain of uncertainty and aloneness and all too

certain the competitiveness of the multitudes to know and

to understand To make your carnival as commonplace as theirs

Too certain the certainty of arrogance Cast it forth then

Let the words flow to illuminate the facade as the ticking

winds crack and cut at the resplendent pillars These halls

may fill with pilgrims fresh with the song of life in their veins

In their understanding I breathe the flow of conformity

to their own ideals Surely he tried to feel it; the hot ashen kiss

The dense and scattered kiss Bright origins of the brutalized

Enter the city minotaur Murmuring environment There, enter!

And with the scoured foetal women Now begins the gorging of satyricon

Sheets to beds One is firmament, yet I love distortion

Succumbing An alloy to mariners and erosion No distinction

from linear eels, mobile and volting Infused in clans of

silken muscles or pencilled solace Downwind Ether celled

Alone with night and his epileptic circus Strange layered

tangos I love tangos Not so stationary So ancient redwood,

yet those seams tie frames for currents momentarily flowing

for another Seeking tributaries to ease real constrictions

and the longings of living age They overlap and emergence

is on regions of mutual continuity in extremes of self

All turns to a dull clay swirl in the first bright afternoon

after midnight

The absence of light is a cruel master, almost like its brother,

Yesterday Their captions and vagueries imagine themselves

at my glutton weddings Patriarchal and creative like that

great angry strength within metamorphosed sand and defeated

metal spearheads of glass and solid blues and darkness;

they are the finality of the city They are the new love

which sucks the life for today with constant greed of mother

beaches and broken earth kings

Listening Tiny winds blew in tiny caverns within me

You so distant, and they, silver men and grey, the steely

jealousy of carelessness