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Joe Adomavicia Feb 2018
Hello all, I have been busy at work on my upcoming book Love Unbound. This is a collection of romantic themed poetry. It is available on, Barnes and and if you would like a signed copy message me and we can sort out details.

I'm so thrilled to share this collection of poems with the world.
In 1941
On this very day
A heinous deed done
In a cowardly way

Attacked while most slumbered
Chaos ensued
Now all awake
Their worst fears were true

Dead laying about
The damage was done
But a giant awoken
Fearing no-one

Heroes were born
From regular souls
Who leapt into action
Their futures unknown

The past is just that
No changing it now
Heroes from both sides
Lie dead in the ground

We should never forget them
One thing we Should do
Is never repeat
What both sides Did do

Attacked killed and maimed
The unfortunate souls
Both fighting for country
And the fight for control

Just thought I'd mention
What some had forgot
Freedom's not free
It cost quite a lot

We can never repay
What they have given
We can only be thankful
For such men and women
Hopefully we all remember what happened, and hope for peace and live life to the fullest
  Nov 2017 Joe Adomavicia
Nat Lipstadt
She lifts her head

She lifts her head
But a few inches from pillow,
Where head, a blonde mess,
Has night time rested

Is it dawn or day,
Sky or rain,
Time to rise, coffee make or time to lay
Back down.

I answer all,
For I've been up for h/ours,
(You know doing what),
Place my hand  'pon her head
and gentle it back down.

Pillowed, I thrown in a few kisses
To that tangled mess,
For my hands, my lips,
My writing utensils,
Write her poem,
This poem,
And answer all her questions,
never spoke, never asked,
N'ere a single word out loud passes.
At 5:45 AM, just now.

Hebrew calendar says Summer Sabbath,
the day of rest has, as scheduled...arrived

wryly, ironically, bitterly,
poet rhymingly thinking nowadays...survived

more apropos,
#even survived alive,
for therein is a concomitant, under-the-surface implication,
of the uncertainty of forecast  future,
for no matter how theoretically normalized and organized,
even a trip to a shopping mall...deadly

survive - a far, far bitter...but better fit

not sure of the why-well of my being here,
poem composing scheduled, always on this day of pause,
this week-ending demarcator of the who I am

I am among the many of little understanding,
who having garnered no solace nor rest,
that a seventh day supposedly, is purposed to beget,
for the world is in a ****** awful mess

with neither the rhyme or the reason,
the single breath I expirate, as proof of life,
is this season's perfect, sufficing hallmark,
symbolic of the reign of unceasing confusion that has left our minds
damaged and contused,
secretly selfishly thinking to oneself,
#my life matters

this Sabbath, I speak German,
the language of my father and his father's,
all my ancestors, even unto the years of the Age of Enlightenment,
today, spoken in the ironic dialect of Munich

Am Morgen borning glorreiche
the morning borning glorious

poet seeks an answer, mission to permission,
to rightly explain
how he visions in unsightly confusion
how he divines loving in Munich's tribulations

sitting in the poet's nook, upon the ancient Adirondack chair,
nature listens to the poet discordant chords
of musical tears upon musical chairs,
wet-staining flesh

all around, the other noise makers gone quiet as well
for they are pityingly, eavesdrop listening for what happens next

The Chair speaks:

"this day,
I am happily,
made of wood,
my living cells
long dispatched,
so that I can no longer
weep in time
with my poet-occupant's
struggling lines,
verses upon the decomposing
of the worst of times,
though in compathy,
my silence, by and to him,
is gratefully unnoticed"

the poet  has no visitors this fine day,
none human or divine anyway,
but not alone

for a gaggle of old ones have early come,
from Rebecca's and his mother's Canada dispatched,
my regular geese guests southbound have returned for their
summer stopover,
but so early,
for the calendar must be telling lies,
it says these are the days of July,
so named  for all  to recall
another murdering assignation~assassination,
that of a fallen Caesar,

my summertime flying audience comes yearly to share the bounty
of this, my sheltering isle,
good guests who in payment for their use of our facilities,
honk Facebook  "likes" in appreciation
for every writ completed in the nookery

this year of fear, the geese are newly self-tasked,
seeking solace to share and understand the world weariness,
so strongly encountered in the roughened atmospheric conditions
newly facing all of us

everybody's needy for respite from the next

where next?

a plump audience of eleven
on this grayed sunny day,
greet me, honking, feverishly, excitable honking, but!

auf Deutsch,
in German

full of questions about predatory man
which I fluently comprehend but of answers,
have none completed, none sealed as of yet,  
any writ by my hand to give away or
even keep

so when the temperature cooingly cools,
on their way further south, them,  it sends,
they will not be burdened with the empty baggage
of inexcusably and poorly manmade
naturalized, pasteurized, synthesized,
crap excuses

the poet's own reflection in the fast moving bay waters,
is not reflected,
these, no calm pond waters, but his own internal reflections,
beg him, explain this poem's entitlement,
this designation of confusion and its inflection,

confusion as something lovely?

no good answers do the witnessing waters or the winds sidebar provision,
the geese, the chair, all unfair,
only have similar quarreling questions for him to dare

foremost and direst first,
where is there loveliness in confusion the poems sees?

poet stands on the dock, as if in the dock,
noticed, the waters pause, the winds into silence, swept,
the gulls grounded, the geese aligned in rapt attention,
all to the poet, as jury, they steadfastly attend
to his creation, this poem's titled curse,
an answer even barely adequate, some solution?

In Munich,  ****** born and welcomed,
Dachau, the very first death camp,
sited a mere ten miles away

one could conceivably could demand that

this poet, this Jew, this could-be-Shylock,

having seen a pound of flesh extracted,
might accept this balancing as a compensation
of history's scales weighted by the concentrated demise
of millions of his very own flesh and faith

but he does not...

a nation takes in a million strangers and refugees,
not without peril costly,
visible now, these side servings of risk,
that noble gestures so oft bring

what he feels, why he cries is for the

loveliness of forgiveness,

he unashamedly honest borrows the words he confesses,

any innocent man's death diminishes him

now the winds kicks up, the waters refrosted frothy,
the gulls go airborne, the geese fly away,
searching for another poet to respirate, infatuate and inspire,
clearly, neither satisfied or enchanted with the one
presently available

only the aged Adirondack fair, his aged long time companion chair,
remains moved - but unmoving,
in the domaine of their unity, in the vineyard of
their conjoined, place of quiet contemplation

a woman observes tear stains upon his cheeks,
noticing them upon the chair's open arms now all-fallen,
tho a surface wood hardened,
the tears are softly welcomed and storingly embraced,

the three,
the woman, the chair, the poet-me,
all as one, tearfully, no longer cry in vain,
having  found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings


July 23, 2016
Shelter Island
  Jul 2016 Joe Adomavicia
Nat Lipstadt
"I am learning a little—never to be sure—
To be positive only with what is past,
And to peer sometimes at the things to come
As a wanderer treading the night
When the mazy stars neither point nor beckon,
And of all the roads, no road is sure"

Experience by Carl Sandburg


summarizes my life, the fits and starts,
at every fork, the wrong road taken

and I lean back,
pensive from my shame,
knowingly confessing
that I would make the
wrong choices again

maybe, sadly, most likely...

the maps they provided early on,
were ok, but I never lived
on their edge,
never went far enough,
warned off,
all bordered in the red of
"go no farther,"
so stuck to the worn and grooved paths,
ventured out,
but retreated to safe center court
covered with the wounding cuts of
self-castigating tears,
for my lack of courage
and the waste and burdens
engendered permanent

maps for me,
are now no longer necessary,
for any road of mine is
closer my god to thee,
and my notice that
"the-show-is closing"warning
is a nearing destination,
slips quietly into my back pocket

now, I permission routine
to drive my simpler life,
where easy, gentling kindness
of the usual, the regularizing
steady as she goes,
are my comfy shoes upon
to tread the familiar road of surety...

that sates but doesn't fully satisfy

for the harsh hanging judge,
my resident permanent
on the top floor of my brain,
sentenced me as a young man
me to life imprisonment
in my very own self-built
asylum insane,
where all the tempting ladders were
maps that led to
This Way Out

was so fearful
to grasp and vault
from the top rung to
the uncertain pleasures
of the unknown of the other side

only here,
in the paths of my poetic words
do I venture across boundaries
and back over lines
that dare and
dare not
be refused

the great exposition
the great expiation
the great explication
of one man

words are my living will,
my testament,
my behests, my bequests,
my medals of discourage and
urges not followed,
tarnished but worn proudly

left to my
children's children
as a lesson plan
of one man

of a life poorly well and almost lived
these words are the rebar to build,
to cartograph,
to illustrate
new maps,
better ways,
signed posts
to take the risk of writing,
go gadget go abroad,
create new poems, new styles,
better than those
I that live~leave-left rightly
behind for
fellow travelers,
who will - who must!
use them
to unmake the errors
I herein freely confess

12:07 Sunday July 10th of his sixty fifth year
  Jun 2016 Joe Adomavicia
Nat Lipstadt
Ineffable (More Tornado Prayers and Such)*

Too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words;
Too sacred to be uttered.*

The whimpered cries of the dying
in the rubble of Bangladeshi avarice,
announcing we were worthy of life,
to which we think to ourselves,
agreed upon
with our,
a whispery, silent

The still alive cries of children,
tornado-tormented parents screaming unfair,
teachers body shielding their charges, whispering
save us Lord, from your inventive toys,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent

But here comes the Oklahoma tornadoes again,
now four more dead in Houston,
selecting the innocent, the brave,
logic in any of this, none,
nonsensical at its worst

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent

The first I-am-alive cries
of new born lungs,
I have grandson, stain-less, perfect,
recovering in the stainless steel delivery room,
I hear the all babies in the neo-natal unit in unison
pronouncing a Hebrew blessing,
the Shecheyanu...

(Blessed are You, Lord our God, Master of the universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and has brought us to these special moments)

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent

These unspoken poem devotions of adoration
of the sleeping chamber, that cannot
be heard or answered for they're dreamt and
perchance in the morning thankfully recalled,
enough to be transcribed,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent


A day,
just another supplying an average day
to the mass of average.
Birth + Death = an average day.

I thank a God for the
birth of a newborn perfection

On this day the newspapers report
about silence of the God others pray to,
could be the same deity,
reporting that in his holy places,
Jew spits upon Jew,
Muslims usurp Christian lives,
all for none,
all forgetting in
whose image they were created.

to which we cannot say nor think


too sacred to be uttered,
so instead of the paucity of these un-uttered words,
know that each tear in
the reservoir of my eyes
is my unspoken poem prayer.,
my amen.

Instead of answering
amen out loud,
wipe my eyes
with your fingertips,

An ineffable amen
Joe Adomavicia May 2016
She stood in a field of green
Ripping the heads off daises—
What subtle reinforcement for the fight.
I have tried—
With all of my might,
To look beyond what greets my eyes,
Yet find myself with no choice
But to turn the other cheek.

She stood with her feet in the sand
Building towers only to knock them down—
What subtle reinforcement for the fight.
I have tried—
With all of my might,
But cannot stand to bare witness
To the love of destruction and reconstruction
With no other purpose than amusement.

She stood with a heart in her hands
Squeezing tightly, dispersing the remains—
What subtle reinforcement
For the fight.
I have tried—
With all of my might,
But cannot rid myself of the pain of her disdain.

She stood with a stone cold stare
Eyes locked on the horizon—
Emotionless, regretless.
What subtle reinforcement
For the fight.
I have tried—
With all my might,
But at the end of the day
I have learned one cannot
Make another do or say
What they deem to be correct.
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