Barry Andrew Pietrantonio

Barry Andrew Pietrantonio Jan 2016

Suicide in the shadows,
waiting for a poor man,
creeping over his shoulder,
a dark new day.

Wrapped around his neck,
words can't escape his dry throat,
holding him down,
more bills and car loans.

Under a microscope in the sun,
burning himself.
Holding the lighter to his palm,
burning himself.

It's something warm he says,
when the days are cold and the nights long.
The phone rings in the corner,
playing that bittersweet and intimidating song.

So he dances in the morning sun,
as it creeps through his blinds,
his legs shake and scramble.

Copyright Barry Pietrantonio

Barry Andrew Pietrantonio Dec 2015

Behind the Times

Sitting behind who I used to be,
watching him juggle and fight gravity,
such a young rebel, a child at heart,
a child in his mind.

Big ideas and big hopes for all the world,
big love for everyone and that special girl,
all so small now that I realized,
how big everything else is.

I fought with myself and I fought with the law,
with my mother, my father, and everyone I saw,
brash and boisterous as I cocked my head back,
a savior of no one at all.

Years come and go with the blustering breeze,
people you loved let go with ease,
and you find yourself looking back one day,
at the back of your pasts head.

Copyright Barry Pietrantonio

Dec 2015

Katie Katie

Modern poetry

I'm a modern poet

The white paper wasn't bright enough
My favorite pencil didn't write bold enough
My black final-draft binder wasn't modern enough
My black final-draft binder might as well be waste of time
Because instead of writing by hand with love and mind
I can select, copy and paste, relax and unwind
Instead of sitting-up in my bed, copying neatly or erasing the lines
I can repeat or forget, without blinking an eye

The words are more significant than this...
Than minuscule, locking it, hiding it, pocketing it

My fingers replaced my pen
A white glow replaced the lines
Instead of writing away unrestricted, I
have-an inch above my finger- the time

Before, I would sketch the date & time at the top-right
Now it appears effortlessly, automatically, without my permission
It's not only my paper (or screen) anymore, I mean, I didn't write that

With a push of a button I can perfectly align it to the right
I can no longer be identified by unique handwriting
A "go-back button" replaced my eraser
I can no longer hold words thin in my grip

I no longer have to protect it from getting lost, crumpled, or ripped
It's as safe as everything else here;
Not any more sacred or precious
If I'm a modern poet

The ease of art is at my fingertips, literally
And it disappears when the device locks

I don't turn the page, hear the paper sound
I scroll down with one quick swipe
I may no longer write the way I have
I'll type it out on a $200 iPad
Rather than a cheap scratchpad
Is my new version of 'scrap paper' more valuable than my work?

The words will remain in my mind
I'll **** them out one at a time
Somehow demeaning them with this
Sensational technology that corrupted mankind

So, I'm sorry, poetry, my outlet, my friend
You poor, pure thing, let us pretend
I gave you more time, and effort
Just as should for everything you really care about

Barry Andrew Pietrantonio Nov 2015

Redline

I've been living on the redline,
under the shadows of the souls who scamper above me,
the lifeless and the mindless,
walking in straight lines through the city.

Concrete womb that cradles the broken,
enables them and helps them lose their minds,
to the place they call home, they scamper blind,
I tell you now, this is no home of mine.

I'm living underground,
beneath the city that buried me,
and left me for dead,
in a metal coffin,
hoping I'd wash up in a new prison.

Amongst the filth and rats,
I'm a lesser but I have more than many,
to most, I'm just a burden,
only a few can see that I offer plenty.

They stare as they squabble,
so many words fill the air without a meaning,
depriving us of peace and unity,
the trains steel as cold as the community.

I've been living on the redline,
a vessel away from all the smoldering hatred,
some think we're forgotten,
but they're the ones we're trying to forget.

Copyright Barry Pietrantonio

Barry Andrew Pietrantonio Nov 2015

Playing the Part

Cement and concrete cracks and crumbles,
steel and sand buries and breaks,
trapped beneath layers of rubble,
one wrong move is all it takes.

Just "unfortunate" says the news,
twelve more men, a few new widows,
spinning stories of their bravery,
as they trembled through the streets.

Sent to fight in another world,
where men do anything for their State,
handed to death on a silver platter,
giving him control of their fate.

You can give and you can take,
but that's where we're mistaken,
because you can't take back the lives,
you give once they're forsaken.

Copyright Barry Pietrantonio

Barry Andrew Pietrantonio Nov 2015

That New Familiar Feeling

Cold, so cold,
barren and hollow,
no longer home,
a truth that's hard to swallow.
Home once alive,
everything has died.

No smell, no noise,
nothing but an empty space.
No pictures on the walls,
not a single smiling face.
Home once alive,
everything has died.

Still there hangs a gentle air,
warm enough to make your hair stand.

Home that was once alive,
not everything has to die.
Not her.

Copyright Barry Pietrantonio

Barry Andrew Pietrantonio Nov 2015

No More Noise

It's empty in this kitchen,
no Law and Order reruns in the background,
walker's missing from the living room,
phone been ringing for hours now.

Kitchen table's not so cluttered,
no newspapers waiting near the door,
nothing moves inside here anymore,
not even the dog on the floor.

And I'm waiting for a sound,
and I'm waiting for a call,
and I'm waiting for a voice,
calling me down from below.

And I'm waiting for a bus,
and I'm waiting for a friend,
that I know isn't coming,
to the home where she once lived.

Copyright Barry Pietrantonio