.
What’s Left to Say?
a rhupunt
When women’s plans
Are like a man’s,
So they act trans,
What’s left to say?
When folks believe
That to conceive
Is cause to grieve,
What’s left to say?
When Mother’s womb
Is a place of doom,
The trash the tomb,
What’s left to say?
When faithful priests
Must be released
And God is least,
What’s left to say?
When men replace
That empty space,
Our folk to erase,
What’s left to say?
.
.
A Boy’s First Love
A boy’s first love, his mother fair,
The first to show a helpmate’s care.
In soft, caressing hands, he’ll see
Her adoring face from on her knee
And hide his head within her hair.
He breathes her love as he breathes air;
She guards him like a mother bear,
And God set her apart to be
__A boy’s first love.
Once grown, he searches everywhere
To find a woman who’ll compare
With her, his first, for only she
Has shaped his heart for a woman’s key.
Her greatest joy has been to share
__A boy’s first love.
.
.
Joshua C. Frank works in the field of statistics and lives in the American Heartland. His poetry has been published in Snakeskin, The Lyric, Sparks of Calliope, 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.
For me there is so much to say and do to rectify the problem, although it seems to have gotten out of hand! Your poem is one of those that says so much, but some will never get it. Your maternal presentation is precious.
Thank you, Roy.
I’m not sure the problem can be rectified, because as Andrew Isker wrote in his book The Boniface Option: “That is the end to which the murder of children, the abandonment of all sexual mores, and the destruction of the household is dedicated: so that you can live on Pleasure Island without ever turning into a donkey. That is what the pro-life movement consistently fails to recognize, the end to which the murder of babies is sought.” We would have to change that attitude before we could end abortion, and history shows that we can no more reverse a culture’s decline than we can reverse the course of the sun.
More to the point, when a person is so depraved as to champion the horrors mentioned, what can you say that will get through to that kind of sociopath?
I love these. As a mother of seven sons, number two certainly speaks to my heart. “He breathes her love as he breathes air.” Yes!
Thank you.
Thank you, Gigi. Seven sons—what a blessing! Any daughters?
As I know from the other end, the mother-son relationship is truly special.
Joshua, yes, two daughters.
My brother had a unique relationship with his mom. I didn’t understand it at the time, but see it now that I have sons, and as you remind in your poem.
Wow, 9 children! You’re truly blessed.
There is just something about relationships between opposite-sex parents and children; women have told me that the father-daughter relationship is similarly special.
Both of these are very enjoyable to read, Josh, with deep meaning and feeling behind them. I have never heard of the rhupunt form, so thank you for the introduction! It’s an interesting form with an intense build-up of rhymes which helps to hammer home whatever message you seek to present. It has limited versatility but it certainly works in this instance — it almost feels like a poet’s protest chant. In fact, that may be exactly what it is!
The rondeau presents the very sweetest of messages. There is no love like that of a mother. Yours should be very proud.
Thank you Brian! I discovered the form by reading the poems of Phil S. Rogers, which can be found here: https://classicalpoets.org/category/rhupunt/ Using the fourth line as a refrain was my idea—usually the fourth lines of all the stanzas just rhyme. This, I think, is what makes it into a protest chant.
And, yes, my mother is very proud of me—in general, but also about my poems. Some of my biggest fans were introduced to my work by her.
It’s precisely because our culture denigrates the love of a mother more and more, thanks to its vaunted feminism, that I have to write about it.
“What’s Left to Say” is very effective. It’s a good example of the guideline that, in some cases, a poet should be concise and to the point rather than rhetorically copious. The rhupunt is a good form for those cases.
Thank you, Joe. That’s precisely why I wanted to use that form. I find short lines suitable for saying things more directly.
Josh, you have used the rhupunt and the rondeau to great effect in these impactful poems that I hope will make many question the cruel insanity of these chaotic times. Thank you!
Thank you Susan!
I hope these poems make many question the insanity as well. But the fact that they need to be written in the first place doesn’t make me very optimistic.
I don’t know so much, Josh. I believe people are feeling the pain of living a lonely life. These days family holds increasingly less value. Today’s society makes a mockery of motherhood – “A Boy’s First Love” shows that this bond is priceless, and I thank you for reminding every mother and son out there how valuable that bond is.
It’s all true… I don’t think we can turn back the sundial, but I do hope these help someone out there.
“A Boy’s First Love” struck home. As much as I guide and instruct my son, nothing will compare with his feelings for his mother. (I also observe the same dynamic between myself and my daughter, and cannot help but think how perfectly designed we are to have the parent of the opposite sex serve as a model for seeking out a spouse).
“What’s Left to Say” makes effective use of refrain, and the order in which the problems are presented maximizes effect. Placing the demographic autogenocide of the West last (after even the Bergoglian crisis) gives a real sense of urgency and finality to the entire piece.
Thank you, Adam. Obviously “A Boy’s First Love” is autobiographical, and women tell me the same things about the father-daughter relationship.
The order of the stanzas in “What’s Left to Say?” was intentional; I believe that feminism naturally leads to contraception, abortion, an insipid (at best) Church hierarchy, and the mercy-killing of the little that’s left of the culture, in that order.