Biography of Swamidhason Francis
Born in Nagercoil, TamilNadu, India, to Catholic parents Francis and Veronical in 1956, Swami Dhason Francis had a Ph.D in Biblical Interpretation from the School of Theology, Almeda University, Idaho, USA. He is currently working as an English professor in Margeb University, Libya.
Swamidhason Francis's Works:
The Iago Trail novel, The Betrayed Discipleplay, Unshackling an Apostle-Judas in Christology Non-fiction, The Imperial Inquest  play
Swamidhason Francis Poems
The Squandered Life
An angel came out of a split atom as the trumpet sounded A grand throne came down from Heaven for him to be mounted; Air was sucked out of me; my senses lost contact with me My eyes closed and like lightening, light was taken off me;
Selfie With Spring Flowers!
Like roadside call girls bewitching wretched male humans, The spring flowers beckoned me, creating in my heart demons Of romance, which leaped like possessed belly dancers of Arabia. My mind couldn’t halt my impulsive heart that raced as a horse of Arabia,
A Head On The Highway
A HEAD ON THE HIGHWAY Two wheeled commuters with heads booted with helmets, dotted the highway; The four wheeled rich hooted at pedestrians daring to cross their path,
Warriors And Lovers
Warriors and lovers are one; both are in hot pursuit Of their targets; that’s why all is fair in war and in love. Distance makes them fall in and nearness makes them love; And sobering live-ins make their home just business suit.
The Lone Survivor
“All are dead! ” shouted the old man tout and tall; “Oh My God! ” they heard him murmur ere his fainted fall On the steps of the station, in Balvano at the edge of Southern Italy; Already defeated by Allies, Benito Mussolini’s fascists were booted-out
Like dotted foreheads of women, our land was dotted with swallows; They had rap dances on the farmers’ ploughs and bulls’ yokes in the field With feathery steps to the toilers’ footsteps till the land was filled with yield. The harvest saw them fluttering about in mirth, mating and birthing new fellows.
When birds wake up the sun with melodies, mom is up singing David’s psalms; When workers troop out drooling, mom packs us to school with books and food; When gates of schools close for the day, mom opens the door to our evening mood; When sleep shuts our eyes with her nightly kiss, mom has chores still at her palms;
Chirping in glee like flapping birds the cherubs played on the deserted road, Like a field to play the road lay vacant with its steep slope giving a rolling new To their birdie ball game; nobody noticed the Road Roller parked in haste off their view. And it started gliding down the slope to the waiting valley below with rocks broad,
O, ululating woman, listen, stop shedding tears like an April cloud a tad too often; Remember the wise saying of Solomon; ‘this will pass away’ like ancient empires And be happy, the sage counseled. But he was disdained as if he were one of the vampires. And the wailing and crying continued for ages, despite her change in fashion too often;
Migrants From Africa
Looking silly with attires of cheap jeans and not even beans for our belly, like satires Of creation, we move north, gazing at Europe and brazing the dazzling Sahara Sun; The militias gave us Guns to fight and shells to shoot, killing our sons just for fun. Their angst shriveled our future and we moved in droves with dreams like Martyrs
I’ve stopped teaching, the professor said and sat down, serious and silent As the rows and rows of us wondered in what way we offended his person; Time rolled fast as if to mock the slow roll of our eyeballs with its own version; Then our patience vanished like seconds, swinging our mood and came alive in violent
The Amputated Leg
A human leg it is! With senses numbed the village stood around the dump; It’s a curse! Righteous path we diverted, in shiver, the devotees driveled; A dog might have dragged it, in what’s app, the android fingered techie drooled; Consult the occultist, shouted the stout village chief and all became dumb.
Dreams And Reality
I met her in the Book-Fair, three days the fair lasted And she was spotted on all days, browsing and buying my books Eyeing me without talking; I could read her mind in her looks As the tip of her lip touched my book cover image. The posted
Reporting From The Gate Of Hell
The pro designer thumbed up; The digital camera was ready to capture; And the TV anchor appeared in lively rapture With rehearsed lines that mocked in poise rhymed poems written in prose.
The Dirty Shoe Mender
Climbing out of my Audi car I had to cross the downtown street
Acquiring the dirt and dust thrown off the autos of the street,
And stepped on the glazing floors of the restaurant with stars five;
But the impeccable flooring exposed the dirt of my shoes uneasily live.
I squirmed in self-conscious dirt bursting my ego with shoes unclean;
The waiter came in shining black shoes taking orders with manners clean;
I gulped the ten Pound Brit tea and pulped his status with a five Pound tips;