Thursday, February 25, 2016

The Less Timid Heart

Fly upon the winds of the stars, set your wings,
to your other dreams and other things, my explorer!
A million and more, nebulous hearts, celestial beings,
you are not alone, dreamer, or at home, the wanderer.
A thousand worlds, to none we have traveled before,
flights of fancy, flights of joy, the happy conqueror!

A blackest jewel, beneath eternity's endless sky,
lovers and fools walk here speaking of trifling things.
The smallness of hands meet without the question why,
beyond this, only the sorrowful parting might they fear.
In a silent room, the less timid heart grows and sings,
I am not alone, I am so loved and so it is I am here.

Fears and tribulations all, a thousand suns shine,
'hear me, hear me,' cries a stranger, 'I am but alone'!
Love fears no darkness, I am yours and this joy is mine,
come you moon, goodnight and dream among the rest!
Every valley, along the waters where light has shown,
I reside in sweetness for one who knows me best.

Here in the ash and wood, a lesser road known,
winds and returns, in the shadows of the distant hill.
We are not ourselves, not each other and never alone,
not in the light of a room, looking out upon this night.
Our hopes and hands rest weary upon a lonely sill,
as hope burns still, like the flickering candle light.

Brian Francis Hudon
November 12, 2014

The Window

Night time calls, the dark color in the window,
heartbreak beckons, teases emotions, slows time.
The outcasts, alone and wandering, move slow,
the four empty walls close in, their prisons within.
So their energy is spent, disappearing into rhyme,
hiding in the forest of words, there, waning thin.

The strings of the instrument move easily, tense,
yet the emotion flows freely, in conflict and verse.
The breath of music, thoughts in motion, sense,
the palette of the mind and heart in eternal warfare.
The wind moves the leaves, both fluid and terse,
to find rapture in chaos, in the soul's love affair.

Some breath moves the tree, seasons changing,
searching by moonlit passions, its stark silhouette.
A voice cries out, its simple phrase left hanging,
an unresolved love, an indictment, a hidden name.
Bear with these the burden, an unnamed threat,
where our confidence is shaken and the same.

Patience, silent patience is ours for the making,
to hold a look, in distances between, in moments.
Hold them now before our hearts are breaking,
hold every light in the darkness, before we awaken.
Joy so dear bearing resemblance to the torments,
in brief separations, not for a moment forsaken.

Brian Francis Hudon
November 9, 2014

Weary Traveler's Might

How long since these outward turning tides,
since these eyes held your hands in the night.
Their feeling subsists and then soon subsides,
and still their wilderness remains, unbroken.
Now we await for the weary traveler's might,
to reside for a lifetime and some small token.

You are the word and you become the pages,
you remain the ambition and the silent drive.
You become the song for their awaiting ages,
like so many my muse come and gone before.
They are written, forgotten, yet they survive,
until their world remembers them no more.

Like some ghost, who does not soon forget,
the poet and plunderers forge her immortal
Their wagers are placed but for him, not yet,
she transcends hours, and pauses for no man.
He would subsist beyond their secret portal,
for a dream and hopes of some unmade plan.

Still does their rain come and go, undaunted,
as fearless as a mountain, scored from danger.
Soon their invention might melt, so vaunted,
before her heart so like the storm and as wild.
He would meet her again and like a stranger,
with all that gallant innocent youth of a child.

    Brian Francis Hudon
    January 10, 2013


War, deep on the score of violence,
speaking a song, making waste of the night.
A sordid frightening kind of menace,
the hypocrites demand a latest solution.
More to the left, an attack upon the right,
fools of God and man, the institution.

A lightning raid, sights in the hoard,
wreaking havoc, a light and revolutionary.
Sleep tonight, for dreams in the ford,
save the child from every radical tyrant.
Bereft of democracy, a negation, sanitary,
the human heart is once more defiant.

Clear minds vanish, going terminal,
patriots and paradigms, forgetting the hero.
He lends a way, furthers the optimal,
a flaming baptism, logic unto certainty.
The reign of relativism amounts to zero,
winter's hell paving streets of insanity.

A longing without belonging awaits,
the eternal void, nil and fowl in the streets.
He has awaited the twin turn of fates,
every lie like truth, every truth like lies.
His countless deaths and deathless defeats,
his minions do not tire beneath the skies.

What force has a man against these,
fortitude and resolve, seeming ever the fool?
Like the stars, born, as upon the seas,
a multitude of follies, as riots of futility.
Victory is defeat, a conqueror of the duel,
without relish, but borne with fidelity.

Brian Francis Hudon
January 1, 2013


Take the man, take him in time,
to bear the traversal of that distance.
Speak to him mysterious rhyme,
to reveal him in every horror of war.
Temper him with the resistance,
as countless men who went before.

The hour is now, so we are ready,
a time for patient preparation is past.
Bring him about, silent and steady,
we are eager for the conflict at hand.
That time has come for us at last,
to unhinge perdition across the land.

So now they hunger for the fight,
hunger for changes and for a destiny.
They hunger with wings of flight,
for a grey day, a great day and more.
They labor through lies of history,
to conquer victorious as ever before.

War, fire, by the long dark lines,
into the abyss a numberless throng.
A legion of lights and divine signs,
it is the heavenly union of the hosts.
Like a spirit wind, wide and long,
the enemy companies fade as ghosts.

Raise banners today, torches high,
the vanquished are cinders and soot.
Truth reigns through our cyan sky,
his starry blade un-dulled, unbroken.
The enemy is weak and ever afoot,
while truth is eternal if ever spoken.

Brian Francis Hudon
November 15, 2012

Friday, February 19, 2016


I cannot wake you from this darkness,
or lift the weight from your mortality.
It is neither mine to grant or dispense,
albeit I am the same thread and weave.
Perennially you have traversed my sea,
across the expanse where men deceive.

You have crossed the divide too soon,
yet I may touch you - you will not feel.
You are beyond our winter be it noon,
cold February in corruption unabated.
For a moment, you are warm and real,
in your soft hand is every truth related.

The fire of your heart shall not retire,
not in death, not in distance or despair. 
Beauty eternal shall not fail to inspire,
nor the black tresses your countenance.
The miles are difficult, the reward fair,
for truth and hope, a daily sustenance.

There is no song in death, or pleasure,
giving meaning, as time stands eternal.
 Their buried life, buries their treasure,
cold beneath this earth, below the sun.
Love bears darker burdens, nocturnal,
recalling victory before a battle is won.

Brian Francis Hudon
February 19, 2013
(revised February 19, 2016)

The Gravel Road

Midnight beckons, a dream and a storm,
by steps of darkness on an unseen horizon. 
A red flash of danger, beyond the norm,
we are men, we are ghosts, and soon alive.
The warning passes and the threat is gone,
what tale have we to tell, or truth contrive?

The song is broken, the strings as silent,
for the moment, for a breath, held lightly.
Like a reed, like smoke, is our moment,
moving, shifting, fading, into the shadows.
Fragile as a cloud, though rising mightily,
the thought returns, and the melody flows.

The sun is near, the warmth is a new day,
and my company is as a dream I once knew.
I am whole, and I am lost to find my way,
with faith as my guide, to the familiar voice.
I knew the difference and I knew you too,
the gravel road revealing every new choice.

My symphony is in the trees, the seasons,
when countless forgotten mornings pass by.
You are nearer, hands holding the reasons,
they are yours and they are mine so recently.
Need I ever wonder, here, just you and I,
as tender years move along, ever discretely.

Brian Francis Hudon
May 10, 2012

Do Wake Me From A Dream

Do wake me from a dream, when it is time,
that this may be as this may seem, and more.
Take us to sleep, for sweetness, and rhyme,
for another day, another age, hour by hour.
It is light and the morning like times before,
just and right to behold their simple power.

It is a grey day, an eagle upon the starry sky,
light upon us now, and we are young anew.
A summer eve, which never ends, and why,
in the green of June and July, we bear light.
Clear as water, your eyes and morning dew,
your breath as a song and birds before night.

Run with me now in the fields and laughter,
the time is ours and as yet would never end.
Wait for me here, a hundred years and after,
star of my day, light of my sky, so beautiful.
No more hope could I have, it is this I send,
memories of yesterday and a heart once full.

You are unmoved in the wind, like a flower,
like a leaf, before the storm, strong and still. 
And for a smile you would defy their power,
hurrying me home through the winter cold.
It is hope that sustains me, an act of the will,
for you and yesterday, every day til I am old.

Brian Francis Hudon
January 9, 2012

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Solemn as Night

Blue and green makes this solemn as night,
from sight unseen into the mountain's pale.
As on an eagles ride unto the stars of flight,
we are travelers two, unto a still new moon.
Shadows moving gently among stones frail,
are settling and steady their dreaming soon.

As mythic and prayerful their pact is made,
an ageless agreement in the summer dusks.
An act of hope before a new stage is played,
in an epic and psalm within a steel creation.
Before chaos and triumph the empty husks,
the dust of time meets its unearthly station.

Shall we retire unto the roads and the field,
in reflecting on the words of younger years.
In these new inventions for a mortal shield,
is but the silence for our breathing in peace.
Time needs to be taken for hopes and tears,
aside deep amber tides which seldom cease.

In bartering for moments of this attention,
I am who I am, for those spaces in between.
Fears of silence do not tempt our direction,
but the nearness of tidings unknown to me.
As forever unmoved stones remain unseen,
but for shadows to all we have been and be.

Brian Francis Hudon
January 12, 2009

As the Eagles Fly

What joy - before death tolls,
to know that today is the only day.
Tomorrow is the wager of souls,
silently waiting, making no promise.
After many doubts, I find my way,
the way of time's choosing this.

An island on the distant water,
a haven of darkness, a night's stage.
Rock and life, history's daughter,
upon a bitter nebula, a voyager's sky.
Ancient warrior and cunning sage,
a thousand suns as the eagles fly.

A bell still rings true and bold,
proclaims the hour, stating its case.
History marches on, we grow old,
staying young at heart, bold as youth.
Easily we'll gaze upon time's face,
and pause with wonder at truth.

The steady rocking of the sea,
and we wander into bright dreams.
What has been, what shall ever be,
these alone are what we're promised.
Where there is you, so there is me,
together still in morning's mist.

Brian Francis Hudon
November 16, 2015 

An Endless Sea

I have become this whirlwind, a storm unleashed,
and I am silence and I am love and I am confusion.
The peace in the stars confounds me, releases me,
finding me, in the pages written are an endless sea. 
Alone, always alone in fear and reality, a delusion,
losing the things most near, most dear, decreased.

These time pieces, the days and weeks of the year,
these are darker now, in hours slower and dreary.
What hope that guides a night's delightful dreams,
starry eyed wonder, in celestial rivers and streams.
We are tired and restless and of this world, weary,
so trusting in its splendor and conquering our fear.

Brian Francis Hudon
November 9, 2014

The Stars

A thousand nights of night to wonder and observe,
for these and more the stars delight to tell their story.
A thousand years, wonders and dreams they serve,
mighty works and mightily shining, fires of the deep.
A streak across the heavens, for a moment's glory,
they crease the darkness, deep in our minds of sleep.

In bright eyes, a new vision, clear as winter night,
beneath cloudless scenes we brace for winter's cold.
Be they travelers, wanderers or strangers in flight,
they welcome us and bridge timeless years between.
Ancient and heralded, born for vestments of gold,
though we sleep beneath them, silently and unseen.

Brian Francis Hudon
October 24, 2014

The Joyous Desert

Such sweet separation, distant, gentle and near,
brief occupation, in trust and comfort, endless turns.
Resistant, our desires are patient, friendship dear,
a look between these companions closes many miles. 
A cautious exchange, fear set aside, hope returns,
embracing daring and familiar foolhardy trials.

My two hearts, the brave and the self conscious,
ever at war and unresolved, who would I be this day?
Who I am to others, this timid paradox, cautious;
someone reach across the divide, find the way across.
If only I might recover myself and not be this way,
to fear not satisfaction and the treachery of loss.

These are the joyous deserts of my imagination,
unreconciled with the world, the same with myself.
Every curiosity, in every thought and fascination,
life brings wonder, color and sound, our landscape.
All the grey days of boredom lay upon the shelf,
abused, the final home of obscurity and escape.

Walk with me a while, let fortune take a hand,
set no courses, take the stars as they are, unresolved.
Let no silence dissuade you, I stand where I stand,
by you, trusting, hoping, where the crossroads meet.
An apprehension met and is in certainty dissolved,
herein, a heart is mine to give, stealth and fleet.

Brian Francis Hudon
October 18, 2014


A way in, the way out and another strange day,
a stranger to yourself, alone, among the many faces.
Who are you, the wanderer, the isolated way, 
no words when words are needed, is awkward.
Look, that one may look to you, in long embraces,
our hopes silently treated in days now forward.

Shadow of mine, light of my day, familiar now,
a stranger to me, while one fades into a background.
Intrigue of mine, show me the ways, and how,
we are so remote here, to express a rare thought.
One can be perfect and clear, and not so profound,
that joy might unite us, the way happiness ought.

Brian Francis Hudon
October 18, 2014

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Beneath a Milky Way Shadow

Another cold night under the cold stars, feeling old,
with old songs, old feelings, looking for something new.
Hearing the words, righting old wrongs, life is cold,
in such wonderful dealings, how shall we bide our time?
Life is the canvas, life is the field, moments are few,
come to me tomorrow, and find words to rhyme.

Twilight, first star, wish upon a wish, I've been there,
will you join me in the last light, first light and in between?
Say you'll be waiting without a heart debating, to share,
a force of nature in gentle carelessness to distract my senses.
Never has this been, in days past, in nothing I have seen,
breaking endless rhythm, the nights of self defenses.

Call me in your sorrow, call my in your joy, call me,
I am quiet but listening and within this eagerness bristling.
In unspoken delight and treasures of the night, the sea,
beneath every new moon, beneath the heavens, it is a riot.
A Milky Way shadow, fireflies and flowers glistening,
let us walk and dream, tread the early autumn quiet.

Remember the snow while we cherish every moment,
remember the days in memories, where everything is new.
Our journey never ends, the foolishness, our discontent,
the light of discovery, the light of reason, without a reason.
Again the memories fade and the occasions are too few,
but we make them, living them, in and out of season.

Brian Francis Hudon
October 10, 2014

The Sterling Hallows

So much fades with time and remains undone,
while the words are written, their order ever new.
Time is the adversary and this our victory won,
setting youth's meteor free for some final conflict.
Even now the days of rest seem heavy and few,
while hope's lines of supply seem lately indirect.

Mystery, the question of man, time, eternity,
a great void  beckons with intrigue and promises.
Beyond the glass, our quiet steps into infinity,
the songs of the grass, in the fields and lofty hills.
A thousand eyes observe, in deeper recesses,
beyond where men are alone and curiosity fills.

The stars have spoken with silent agreement,
night lights and watchmen in faces from the past.
Opportunities lost and broken, souls lament,
for the innumerable faces - standing in shadows.
A fiery brand, a herald, a prophet moving fast,
through the deeper nebulae and sterling hallows.

Nothing is promised here, no words to calm,
our lives are memory, impressions, ancient tales.
Comfort is passage, knowing a soothing balm,
brushing away the luminary legions, like dreams.
We hurry, before the nocturnal canvas pales,
and life relents - to daytime's splendid schemes.

Brian Francis Hudon
August 27, 2014


Eyes, where I might know I am not alone,
for reflection, I come, I go, the world is mine.
Every truth is revealed, every secret known,
to risk rejection, here we give the world away.
Our sun is brilliant rising, sweet and benign,
revealed in light, contained in joy, a new day.

I am concealed in her, so deep in longing,
to be one's self is a mystery, joined to another.
So still I am the stranger, yet not belonging,
in the ever present danger, escaping loneliness.
To break myself apart, her eyes, the other,
every concept contained within the vastness.

Our hands, in the darkness for our guide,
a touch, the strength, bear sensation and heat.
The winter nights are not so far and wide,
we do love too much, the experience intense.
Yet this is love, a heart in heart, complete,
without self, without gain, without pretense.

I step into the world now, no longer alone,
all my appearances are lost, and every disguise.
Again, the eyes across the distances, my own,
they are yours, they are mine and they are ours.
I am terrified and comforted. I fear no lies,
being truth's companion in these new hours.

Brian Francis Hudon
August 27, 2014

The 4th of January, 1985

There are still the poems, yet no paintings,
only me of course, creating myself alone this way.
Too many days thinking, un-heard rantings,
but this was me too of course, my little reflection.
Every long conversation, the end of the day,
I would listen forever, to find a right direction.

Still I listen and still I remember, writing,
none of this possible without you, do you mind?
Too late now, the words are here, too inviting,
though they wander, every road leads back to you.
It's this I've found and other things I may find,
and other collectibles too, remembered and true.

Excuse me, have we met? No, you remember!
The days haven't been that long and so good!
Perhaps you will think this too, some December,
or the 4th of January? Was that day something?
You've found happiness and I trusted you would,
a heart like your own. Ours was all or nothing.

And the song plays on, if words make the song,
these two disparate worlds, yours and mine.
Twelve years, another twelve and three, is wrong?
Such is a life of judgements, wrong impressions.
Some day this might all make sense. That's just fine.
Until then, excuse me, for the little digressions.

Brian Francis Hudon
July 13, 2014