a congregation
of creation,
Aspens gather in;
between the hills
where sunshine fills
the church of the ravine.

triumphantly the hymns
that play
on many golden ray,
light the way
for trees that pray
and touch the Heavens' gate.

a gentle breeze
is not perceived
except on leaves of green,
whose bright colors
quake and nod
moved by a breath of God.

their branches white
bathed in moonlight
reflect a spirit strong,
stood straight these years
through storm and tears
with roots in solid ground.

the Aspen Grove
how I would rove
a childhood of dreams,
my spirit always
spoken to
in company of trees.

towering gently overflowing with heightened awareness
subtle hints of blade’s keen glittering chiseled edges
untamed rugged surface powerfully averts gale’s acrid tempest
vigor pulsating that doth persuade the cloud’s reflections
if i shall not again embrace a meager glimpse; a demure echo
of thine towering mounts my soul shall ever suffer

my spirit soars with e'er one glance of thine majestic presence
replete with reminiscence seasons stir and beg thine tender mercies
to house the changing leaves at dusk of autumn’s auburn portraits
and give birth to crystal snow cascading peripherally in winter
which melding into spring then begs thy bluffs to cover
in soft amethyst of columbine blossoming first light of summer

‘tis not paramount to scale high aloft thine peaks in escalation
for small sheer glances stamp forever with imperial impressions
and ‘tho i’ve traveled ‘round and savored nature’s varied essence
none can compare thine evergreens laced in aspens nuance
my breath is gone and shan’t return ‘til in thy shadow casting
i stand and look upon thine hallowed face the rocky mountains

©2016 janetaylor

high along the timber line
in everlasting green expanse
there is a colony of brave young shoots
that dare to change their dress
          to yellow
preparing to face the winter naked-bare
their fair white skin
          vulnerable as they are like the snow
but they stand together unafraid
because beneath the ground
the golden aspens hold each others' hands
though on the surface
          they are quaking

Prophesies of impending fall
     creep stealthily over the Great Divide.
Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze
     like leagues of fibrous wind chimes
serenading the mountain slopes
     with aires of shimmering gold.

A few distant bugle calls echo
     across the Big Thompson valley
as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.
     Sudden early gusts of frigid wind
bring waves of sleet and snow -
     in tune with the turning polar axis.

The greater chill is soon to come.
     The animals know it as do we.
Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.
     Elk and deer drift down from the heights
To show their young the ways
      of the plains and river valleys.

We pull our sweaters on
     and toss another log on the flames
and greet the harbingers of approaching fall
    creeping stealthily over the Great Divide.

September, 2018

I sat curled up in the closet, my knees tucked up into my chest and my arms wrapped tightly around them. The more pain I felt, the tighter I clutched my knees to my chest, my fingernails digging into my skin, breaking it, hoping, with my blood, to make the hole stop throbbing, stop hurting, if only for a few minutes, a few seconds. The throb subsided, dulled, but didn’t go away. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks as another aching sob built deep in my chest, threatening to explode any second. The pressure built, higher and higher in my throat, the pain pushing its way to the surface, looking for a way out. My stomach tightened and convulsed as the sob broke surface, screaming out of my chest like a freight train, allowing the whole world to be privy to my most private pain, privy to the anguish that comes from losing something so dear to you that, when it goes, it takes a piece of your soul, and all of your heart, with it. As the last of my air escaped, my sob turned into a soft, pathetic whimper, like that of a dog sitting at the door when his Master leaves. Depleted of that life-giving substance, oxygen, my body and mind did that automatic thing: breathing. Air ripped through my mouth and down to my lungs, digging its wicked claws into the walls of my throat its entire way. A soft inward whine echoed up from the abyss of my chest just before my lungs were again filled to capacity and another sob burst forth, screaming my agony to the dark walls of the closet I had sheltered myself in.

Eventually, like always, numbness came. It worked its way up through my limbs, a sweet coolness working its way through my burning body. It started in my toes and feet, the furthest and therefore already dullest part of me. Its icy fingers began to massage their way up my ankles and calves next, pausing at my knees to work through the weakness there. I began to feel it work its way up my fingers next, cooling the burn that had been left by her fingers. It followed the paths that she used to trace up my arms, feeling nothing like her fingers’ tender caress. It moved its way up my thighs, chasing the paths her lips used to pursue on their way to my tender core, icing the burns left there. The ice flowed past my elbows, up my biceps, to my shoulders, still following her lips. Up my stomach and abs, along my ribs, over my chest, it searched out the heart that was no longer there. Its icy fingers took a firm hold of my chest and continued their ascent, up my neck and along my chin, gently caressing my cheeks, my nose, playing gently through my hair. And finally, the face, her face, that had been haunting me since I’d stepped into that closet, was frosted over and replaced with the grey haze that meant that I was able to unwrap my arms from around my knees and stand again.

I stood, then, and let myself out. I went to stand in front of the sliding glass door. It was sunrise. I’d sat in there another full night, hiding from the memory of her, hiding from her face, from everything that reminded me of her. I sighed and returned my attention to the sunrise. It was ablaze with oranges and reds and yellows, fire working its way across the sky, flames dancing in the sunrise clouds, heralding a new day. The light was streaming in through the windows, the hopeful light of yet another day. A soft breeze was playing through the aspens that were planted in strategic locations in the sidewalk five stories below. A woman jogged past, dressed in the typical black spandex sweatpants with white stripes running down the sides, accompanied by a tight tank top that revealed far more of the silicone masses, that her stock-broker husband no doubt paid for with his far-too-large Christmas bonus, than was truly necessary for a morning jog. His bonus probably paid for that nose-job that she was sporting as well. I wondered briefly why she was running. I was sure that her husband could probably afford liposuction for her. She jogged around the corner, taking my brief distraction with her, and I was left to ponder the sun rising on yet another day.

I looked around my room, seeing and not seeing the faceless picture frames lining the walls, their emptiness a shadowy reflection of my soul. A soft rage suddenly erupted from somewhere deep inside of me and I found myself tearing the empty frames from their perches upon the wall. Her face stared up at me from the empty, shattered glass that littered the floor. Her eyes haunted me in my rage as I trampled the broken glass, pulling my hair and screaming at the top of my lungs, wordless screams of anguish. My unclad feet began to drip blood onto the glass, hiding the green that was staring up at me, making her flee from the pools of glass that lay strewn upon the floor.

I turned my attention back to the sunrise. Opening the door, I stepped out onto the balcony. A sunrise this beautiful might have once moved me to tears, but the numbness was as paralyzing as it was relieving. All and any emotion was gone. My life was devoid of meaning now. I climbed onto the railing and steadied myself. I waited for the nausea and vertigo that normally came with heights to come, but it didn’t. I looked down, gazing at the sidewalk five stories below. The wind swept up, catching my hair in its grasp, and making me wonder for the first time what it would be like to fly. I spread my arms, my wings, and allowed the warm morning breeze to wash over them. It had a warming effect on my numb body, breaking the ice that had just recently formed all over my body. Her face came back into focus, obscuring the view of the street and the sidewalk below.

My mind, so tattered and torn with grief, brought me back to our last morning together. We had been up most of the night before, making love, our bodies moving in perfect synchronicity throughout the night until they had finally arched in ****** together leaving us sleeping peacefully in each others’ arms. Somehow, we’d still woken up with the sunrise, a blazing red and orange one, much like the one that I was staring at now. She had looked at me with a passionate fire burning in her eyes, softened by a tenderness in her cheeks, and told me that she loved me, that she wanted to stay with me forever. Our fingers entwined, I looked in her eyes and told her that nothing would make me happier. Our lips met then, our tongues entwining and our pulses racing as our bodies moved as one.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, finally allowing myself to succumb to my memories, the happy ones she and I had made during our time together. I held onto them, allowing them to cushion me as only her love could.

Candle flicker

Keeps mosquitos away

The wind is picking up

No sound to be heard but paper crumpling rustle of aspens

A **** seagull squaks; only here 

This is desert living

Desert loving

We have a porch

It kind of feels like heaven

Just the moon and lamplights

And pajamas with no undergarments 
Citronella smell

Dry breeze

Skin no longer chapped

Weathered from my initiation 

During the apex of summer when I read outside at midnight

Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
     To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.


Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
     Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
     Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
     Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

Part II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
     To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
     Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
     Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
     And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
     Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
     As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
     As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
     As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
     She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
     Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
     Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
     She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
     Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
     Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
     All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

Let me know the sweetness of the canopy. The gentle cygnet garden you express in rows. I drift upon the aching embers of the bark of midnight's supper, its kingdom of darkness that I lay upon. Suspended in the air, rocking steadily on a distant plateau, tilling the granules of the earth in my map-lined hands; I pinch the rocks and sand kernels naming places as I snap my fingers. I go to the top of the city I know, a small yellow house in a crowd of tall aspens- and the Catholic church sends me soda and small biscuits, and the Hebrews help me be a better man.

I go to a place which has very small rooms. My legs are like a giant world-sized forklifts that carry the heirlooms of my parents in and out of this universe into another. I make a stride to catch a glimpse of you in passing. I tilt my eyes. I hope that I can see how beautiful you are, once more, if only I lift my head  towards the way in which I know you, or the way in which I once had.

The barron earth seems barron still,
The snow is gone but green lost still,
But on the Aspens, the catkins grow,
The male, the female, each in the wind,
The grow and grow and ask to be seen,
A sign of life in a barron land,
The males they dangle, the females *****,
A source of life, before the leaves,
Winter's gone and Spring has rose,
The Aspen Moon approaches full,
A few small leaves upon the ground,
A strawberry, a flower, some blades of grass,
As the Apsen Moon begins to wain,
Fast rushes Springtime just like the Bull,
The catkins promise, the leaves fulfill,
New life, new living, the Aspen Moon.

Earth (Pangaea)

Pangaea heaved and shifted
beneath the fire-storm sky.
Colliding plates and spewing mountains
shook, roared and thundered
under the brutal chaos
of torrential cataclysms.

In time she yielded her ire
to millennia of pacific rains -
her severed crust
set adrift across the oceans
like gigantic earthen rafts.

Jungles sprang up and terrible lizards
came, grazed and left their bones.
Forests, grains and multifarious beasts
grew and perished in accord
with their past and future destinies.

So here we are - earthbound,
tossed from our mothers' wombs -
fated to live and breed
by the grace of miracles
far beyond our ken.

Beloved mother Gaia,
from whose dust we are raised,
nurture and sustain us
and sing us to our mortal sleep.

2. Air

Air - earth's miracle brew of
     oxygen, nitrogen and all the rest
          meted out in perfect harmony.

Air - silent and still on a moonlit night -
     driver of sheeted rain on window panes -
          and winds that shake the trembling aspens.

Air - author of land and ocean squalls -
     bringer of that ominous pallor
          that presages a tornado's furor

Air - invisible aerial highway
     for majestic eagles and turbo-jets -
         medium of rhetoric and symphonies.

Air – window to the cosmos
      and our fragile life–giving broth -
          unwitting conveyer of toxic alchemy.

Keep watch my sisters and brothers:
     the air we breathe is what we make it
          or rather what we let it be.

3. Water

Water like a capricious deity
     wanders through time and topography -
     cherished and cursed for
     what it gives and what it takes away.

Gentle rains and strident gales
     sculpt rivers and streams
     through forests and plains
     bound for union with the open sea.

Diurnal tides ebb and wane
     at the whim of the charismatic moon.
     Ice mountains advance and retreat;
     rock-strewns moraines left in their wake.

Turbulent currents
     soar over jagged cataracts,
     spraying pastel prisms
     across the misted valleys.

Beneath our all too fragile skins,
     secret sanguine rivers navigate
     our veins and arteries
     bathing organs, limbs and sensors
     with curative balm and sustenance.

Wellspring of all elements,
     fill our daily ladles
     and grant us the will and empathy
     to bequeath the same to our progeny.

4. Fire

Two hundred million years ago
our Paleolithic cousins
seized branches from a burning forest
and stepped into a bold new world.

By the glow of fire-lit caves,
and the scent of searing venison,
they gathered wits and tools
to craft shelters and weaponry.

Their children's children would design
forges and furnaces, factories
and build engines that run on fire.

But their anxious siblings in despair
snatched lightning from the sky
and twisted by fits of anger pride
made also muskets, missiles, bombs
and nuclear Armageddons.

Loki, god of nobler flames
open our blood-stained eyes
and show us the means
to stay our arson lust and
abide by the light of reason.

*Revised and integrated version, December, 2015

When I went to bed I was 17 –
plumes of raven hair and cigarette smoke
wreathed my head and I coughed,
tamping the embered end before kissing
him goodnight -
soldier’s cap a tilt to one side
muscled chin blemished by lipstick
as the screen door flags between us, and
summer makes its last sweet
serenade to the dancing aspens
while momma chided my lackadaisical
entrance and
fairy flight to bed.

At ten o clock I wake now
the aspens stand still, bare, black.
I look down to see
withered fingers writhing in tubes,
ugly blue veins, a strange
woman sponging my lady parts,
calling me “sweetie” like I was a child.
I scream for momma,
I look for him -
my love, my soldier -
starved for familiar faces, as
panic ropes its tendoned grip
through my ribcage, around my trapped
spasming-butterfly heart.

What have you done to me?
Strangers, monsters, *******.
I groan...no words come out, but
squeals and shrieks like a strangling
rabbit, my neck caught in a wire.
What’s wrong with me?
Where are you, my soldier?
Where are you, momma?
Why are they keeping me from you?

You see…when I went to bed I was 17.
When I woke,
I was on my deathbed.

It’s not fair, momma.
If I could do it over, I...
I never would have left him
on the porch, I
never would have passed you
in the kitchen, I
never would have slept
not one hour
not one **** minute
would I have willingly succumbed to
slumber with the faint hush of
summer’s overtures
fading
to the blank slate of
                               a white,
                                             white
                                                       winter.

I wish I was with you, under the canopy of your covered patio...
above parked subaru station wagons
next to aspens and pines, thick with pollen
and lazy concrete carrying joggers and cars and speeding bicycles piloted by the hormone-drunken youths of another sophomore summer
I'd forget, if I was with you
content to sleep in the morning sun and make love on the red porch of your red house....

Chastity wore pretty tiny flowers
in her spiraling dreads,
a fragrance of patchouli
wafted from her lithe form,
she was genuine spirit.
Her sister Divinity
loved summer dresses
and had even tighter dreads,
butterflies twirled
around her regal head.
They were the coolest sisters
on Mother Earth
& every time
they visited a forest,
they practiced
a wonderful habit.
They'd sing & chant
& dance & hug
aspens & pines,
chestnuts & sumacs,
hickorys & walnuts,
cherries & birches.
No joke, they even
hugged mighty oaks.

(Manuscript of Poet Mario William Vitale)


From 1993-1997 - Attended State University in Connecticut,Attempted plays : Tartuffe, Miracle Of St. Anthony and Balm in Gieade,( His poetic aspirations had  in 1989 from submitting his first poem entitled, "Remembrance Of A Loved One"- (Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum)Next from 1989-1997 ( Wrote primarily for Poetry.com and The International Library Of Poetry),* Received editors choice award in 1997 for poem, " A Beacon Of Light ",(1998) Sent poetic manuscript to N.Y. Time Magazine and Chief Editor " John Hyland".Back with rave reviews !* ( From 1999-2008:Had adapted a real keen sense of style for writing poetry: ( 1999- Sent Editorial to:New Man Magazine for the Passion of Christ Movie;Sent followup letter to company with poetry platform information attached,* 2000-2007 : Magazine : ( Catholic) Maries Rose Ferron Magazine submitted poem" Beacon Of Light", which had excellent editorial reviews as the outset !2008- Wrote poem entitled: ( The Heavy Cross) to Poetry.com* Achieved Poetry status of work of Excellence in writing from the Academy Of American Poetry in which still having received rank and status as a member of Academy;* ( The Connecticut Poetry Society)* Short story submitted entitled, "China Dog Ray" submitted to Virginia WritersQuarterly, West Virginia, Also having member status on their board of Poetry.*


( Attribute Poetry to an ever increasing love of God and his unconditional love that he has for us in return,Thankfulness toward family and friends.( To our past ancestors who fought to uphold freedom that far too many of us take for granted ?One needs a pure heart that's fixed on truth,This is in order to withstand the true great test of time !Life is way too short,Press toward the goal or mark of our high calling that is in Christ Jesus The Lord !~My contempoarry artists include that of ellan Bryant Voight, Kay Ryan and carl Phillips.Which all three are Participants in the Academy Of American Poetry.* Having been a member since 2006,My work reflects the likes of past poets such as C.S.Lewis, Hawthorne and edgar Allen Poe.Most of my work reflects with the values of religious beliefs intact,( In my personal view it is essential in demonstrating a real heart of creativepassion !The reader I believe will benefit by my artistic style of development in a verypositive light.)To further the need for poetry to become more main stream,

Mario Vitale was born in Bristol , Ct Has developed a skill for writing poetry in the free verse form. has been featured on Hubpages.com, Starlitecafe.com & Poetry soup. Vitale lives with his elderly mother Ann Soulier in Wolcott, Ct. Currently has written well over 1,000 poems & 2 short story's toward credit platform.

Vitale has taken the poetic world by storm being featured on Google, Yahoo & MSN. Looks up to contemporaries in the poetry industry such as John Ashbery & Major Jackson.
Has been a favorite featured poet reader at Barnes & Noble in Waterbury, Ct.
Also featured on such sites as Poetry soup, Writer's café & Neo Poet.

Mario William Vitale
1 Winfield Drive
Wolcott, ct 06716

A Beacon Of Light
Written by: Mario Vitale
A beacon of light to a much hurting world in need !

Can't help but to claim..,

Some sense of identity,

Stregnth and encouragement only come from above !



Amidst in the distance, the trapped seagull..,

Lieth frightened but still yet adrift !
In a most vengeful fashion striking the passing fish,
A true source of hope,
Yet a most triumphal beam !

This beacon of light shineth forth,
Passerby's can err' escape the helping hand..,

To the most sparkling of radiance !


(2)Thanksgiving Dinner by Mario Vitale
Home for the holiday from New Orleans,
with Mother and Father at the tiny
drop leaf, brown rosewood, mahogany
table with the gold, grinning claw feet;
Father, choler- red-in the-face, short-
sleeved white shirt and cane, says the blessing
as Mother brings in the turkey and cranberry.
Then Mother asks, “Won’t you have more?” and father :
“Do you think Moll Flanders was a *****?”
(I have suffered and bleached my hair blond.)
I am silent before their replies.
Mother sighs. “I can scarce speak to her.”
And Father, too, quotes Shakespeare. (I am thin
as paper and the rose- colored bowl
of blown glass sitting on the silver stand,
half- filled with water.)
“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
to have a thankless daughter”


(3)

Song of Spring
Today I heard a robin sing
heralding the coming spring
A song of exultation to the sky
an ode to earth's awakening

I saw a willow on the hill
It's branches greening in the sun
and all the earth seemed hushed & still
sleeping streams began to run

I heard a softly rising breeze
whispering through the grass
singing through the still bare trees
waiting winter's chill to pass

I saw the sun, so bright and warm
warming the earth after the rain
the buds and leaves, no frost to harm
at least, at last, it's spring again.

(4)

The Ancients
It's my last day with the old giants
In mourning I hike the lost trails,
sniffing the aroma of the bark,
that cinnamon of the forest
Under tepees of wood
in a membrane of shadows,
I stalk the earth, its mammal traces,
its elusive tracks,
to sit on a fallen log
where spiders macramé,
moss sloping to my knees
unaware of invisibles within,
grubbing in their tunnels
A lizard taps my foot,
responding, I muse to its touch,
my thoughts like Indian visions,
And when daylight mushrooms into night,
and an owl hoots from cedar,
I still sit with a lizard on my shoe
Huddled with the ancients of the woods


(5)

Epiphany
Written by: Mario Vitale
It clings to the cliffed shore,
to the wintered face of the thistle path,
to the fingers of the old man's glove
as he waves his memory homeward

In that breath between come and go
she moves up from the bay;
gold turns her stride,
the line of her dress,
the soft sea pulling at her feet

When he reaches out
and the frail birds fly
and the sun and the sky
have married deep into the sea, it clings

Even as his shadow threads retreat,
it clings, even now as it dissolves to mist


(6)

A Return Home, Only Time Will Tell
Written by: Mario Vitale
Oh blessed hope !

Both hardly a believable dream,
Sweltering heat with bloodshed in the street...
Send the troops home !
There is no clear reason for them to roam..,

These are desolate times !
For we have chosen ill faded rhymes..,
The casualties are enormous ?
For a stated cause that clearly atrocious..,

A mother's cry as the door chime rings,
A vanishing salute to freedom as the church choir sings !
Let us look above to all the heavenly love..,
Merciful one, take this chip off my shoulder..,

Stop the senseless fighting before our dear nation grows a bit colder,
Suddenly, seeds were dropped out of a farmers bag,
In time roots spring up fresh out of the fertile soil...
As the sun heats up,


Time will tell when this harvest will soon boil...
In the vast game of life,
One's time is so very brief !
The soul yearns for its' heavenly relief..,

Share with others who may want to turn over a brand new leaf..,

Time will tell of the true importance of helping one another,
To never give into the finish line..,
Nor harsh criticism that our society puts out !
Like a famous fighter in his final bout !

Time will tell of the return home,
To the open arms of a loved one !

(7)

A Valiant Knight
Written by: Mario Vitale
A Valiant Knight

Death springs a new day basking in the breeze
In solemn moments lets pause to think of a place
A far off castle in the mountains away from it all
A valiant knight lived in the structure of it's dwelling
Those days of old where mere men had a noble demise
A beautiful maiden was in waiting for her knight
He would often fight for the cause of stregnth and dignity
The draw bridge where the castle stood had a very unique aura
A mystery of sort sought up in the vast array of crowned nobility

For the king on his thrown was humble yet greedy
Always would take care of himself caring nothing for the needy
A valiant knight was concerned about the kings trust
Often they would disagree on who it was to serve
A joker came in front of the king one day with a magic wand
Waving the wand in the air then there floated ivy everywhere
For the court jester was a fool in the making of his legacy
The maiden would often come forth and see

For she treasured a red rose that was plucked sometime before
Cherished the calling of her stature to the glory of the throne
A valiant knight would often sing sweet songs in the night
Had a following of village people that would sit before his feet
Having a way of words that he would often share
The castle was filled with dragons and warlocks searching for love
A cause to be brave amidst uncertainty of the kingdom
The legacy of golden capulets filled ardent vestibules
Let us toast to the valiant knight who keeps a watch on all that is good


(8)
Hampton Beach

The smell of fresh fry doe
Time had elapsed playing at the casino
Fresh lobster with a side order of fries
Those spacious wonderful sky's
Down at the shell the continental were playing
A walk by the lady of a statue in waiting
Flip flops and the sound of laughter
A playground for kids in the middle
The boardwalk with seagulls flocking over head
Fire works in the midnight air with a cheer


(9)

God's World
It is raining again.
Summer will be over before it ever gets here
Thunder rolls far away, drops
hit the windshield, the sky turns gray

The Sunflower, the blue
Delpinium, the white
Stinkwood drink the moisture
greedily. The green and silver

leaves of the Aspens sparkle as the rain hits them, and the
wind turns them round and round
The creek flows on, oblivious to
the change in the weather.

A break in the clouds allows a bit of sun to hit the side of a
towering mountain
Three cows slowly wend their way homeward. It is dusk.
The gray clouds lift and the sun bursts through,

before sliding behind the hills for the night
It is God's World. He gives it to us to enjoy and to share with each other


(10)

Jake's House
There was a man whose name was Jake
Who had a house upon the lake
Every morning he would wake
And for breakfast have a piece of cake

He had a private fishing hole;
He always used a long cane pole
He fried his fish on red hot coal
And served it in a great big bowl

For a pet, he had a cat


(11)

In The Zone
Written by: Mario Vitale
In The Zone

whispers...
through the dark deranged portals you evoke fear
filled with angelic fervor on it's textual base
yet we dig much deep then ever before

cries in the dark will light the spark of what we need to know
still we stand idle as the average novice introduces its spell
along again then the sadness evokes a newer feeling
dwindling through the vain extraction of the never world

we visually see a flash then a new day approaches
on the lawn two lovers having passionate ***
the screams of vile extreme explodes throughout
perhaps this is the place where Nero tread

yet again I sit alone in my house now huddled in the corner
the twilight sun has tainted my inner vision
the howls of Satanic laughter gives a piercing shriek through
a candle was lit by the edge of my bed

One can remain lax in the quietness of the moment
yet again the setting of the sun
a new day has begun as we embark on the moment
Does death hurt you the most or is it fear

You can equate logic through a firm grasp of the hand
whispers again...
then a faint cry,
we construct living pyramids to honor the dead

A stroke of luck an the impulse ensues
onto so much more but for what
are we grasping for straws what are we searching for ?
quietness again this time I'm in the zone

as if zombie creatures with viscous long fangs that bite
dripping blood off side we run away to hide
no one questions anymore no one has a voice
alone one last time yet feelings of grandeur awake

to the message of hope that spills from the sky
a challenge to be free is a question of time
eyes with spots digging holes in a pool of blood
Satan laughing again spreads his wings

Suddenly I awake but to what ?


(12)

An End Of The Age Of Innocence Part III
Written by: Mario Vitale
In our fast paced twentieth century world..,

We oft' have neglected to stop to smell the roses,
Oft' we used to bow our heads silently to pray,
As we reflect back to the sixties is had launched a pad to rebellion !
With a vast amount of liberal bias and thinking,

No wonder why our nation is sinking..,

Sinking amidst a cuss pool of mere morality..,
For now it is a quite different time,
A very unique but different type of day..,
An end of the age of innocence,

One hath been enlightened..,

From seeking truth,
Some fresh out of a garbage can..,
Yet for Gods' sake,
He hath such an amazing plan !

Hence, to shun the broad road,

Yet to seek to venture in the narrow..,
Such as a distant bird in flight !
You might see this creature venture out at night ?
Of the Eagle nor the Sparrow..,

It used to mean something to have a sense of common courteous..,
To hold open the door for your neighbor ?
Yet for the time being we relent and waiver..,
Would you prefer another taste of a certain ice cream flavor ?

To ponder we must be content with who we are in the inside..,

Nor, a mere fancy suit or blazing sport's car,
Life is a roller coaster..,
In what you do while busy making other plans..,
Finding solace among the height of nature.,

Such to think at what is quite simple,
As a young child reflects on his or her poster board,
Playing with their magic crayons..,
For in eternity it is such a very long time !

Take heed in what you do,

Now is the expectant hour !
What will one choose to do ?
There can be no place nor need for any compromise,
Within it's vast perpetual spectrum !

One just can't put a price tag on a genuine but unique heart !

Hence, with honest integrity..,
The time for change is today !

(13)

He Was There
by Mario William Vitale

From the inner silence of the lamb he was there
In welcoming to the world to share
Within the multiple of words the mouth speaks
As a heart beats through the passage of time
To every poem that was ever written
To every burden ever lifted
To rivers crossing where people living
Sometimes loving other moments giving
In storms that were outside brewing
What is the significance of this love
In painted pictures from above
To every soldier in a battle
To every cow amidst the cattle
Not a second glance at any real romance
A field of dreams throughout our head
From both fire and ice will make you think twice
Perhaps another chance at a roll of the dice
When every kingdom comes thy will be done
Shadows in the shining morn if there's a rose it bears a thorn,
He was there in every circumstance
When they tried to throw stones at her
He was there drawing a line with his finger in the sand
It is my hope that some day all will understand
A glance at the past will tell us of our future
Amidst the inner pain & uncertainty
Through shadows in a field of dreams
In moments of solace amidst the pain
A light moved out upon the street outside
A day that wasn't meant to be
Thorn crown was pulled upon his head
Those shouts of intense anger from the mob
There was only one who would help him back on his feet,
A light that brought only a few to greet
Let us not run away & hide
Each one of our sins was placed on that cross
To lose the battle now would end in tragic loss
Father please forgive them for they know not what they do
He said the prayer now the rest is up to you
That cross that broke a sinful world apart
With his blood-soaked crown with spear in side
To show the whole world he had nothing to hide
The summoned cry brought about healing in the sky
Watch the free angelic dove fly!



(14)

Momma Of Pearls
by Mario William Vitale

Since there's nothing I could find
That was worth giving you,
I sat down to think a while
And write a line or two
If I had a magic wand
I'd wave it just for you,
And give you anything you'd like
No matter how many or few
If I could give you back the years
You so willingly gave to me
I'm sure that you spend them over again
The same as they used to be
Remember when those days and nights
Instead of going to the fair
I'd always say tell me again
The story of the three little bears
I tried to get a strawberry pie
But they were out of season
Then I thought of gold

Sifting through throngs of ordinary people
Feeling the sweat run down your spine,
Knowing that somewhere, lost in the nowhere
Penniless thoughts are sweeping your mind.

Whispering breezes caress the deep valleys
Towering aspens reach for the sky
Loveliness stretches across the whole landscape
And ordinary people live life as they die.

The everyday actions of ordinary souls
Which gather like old leaves in piles at your feet,
They billow and flow like windblown confetti
And lay there like derelict snow in the street.

The passion and pain that flow through the lifeway
The highs and the lows that paint in your mind
Magnificent portraits of colour and texture
That render your eyesight effectively blind.

You scream at the hollowness, vacantly pulsing
Thrash at the emptiness shimmering there,
Long for the avalanche of substance returning
Long for the touch of her long golden hair.

Swim through the morass of ordinary people
Wade through the ordinary thoughts that live there
Making the most of the moments of lightness
Through quivering lips you discard despair.

Dancing in puddles and splashing through gutters
Cascading on through in a frivolous way,
Tossing your mane with a smile built on vapour
Dispelling your cares like windblown hay.

To gasp for air in the turquoise downtime
****** out your palms apon your knees,
Feel your chest convulse with effort
These flooding tensions gush to ease.

Whispering nothings are echoing softly
Silkily wafting from this side to there
Imparting the message that life is worth living
And crimson & scarlet diffuse in the air.

This ordinary day has done it’s thing now
Temperate airs have cooled to chill,
Vistas fade into the distance
Starlings flock upon the hill.

Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
18 January 2008

Wind rushing,
A mighty roar,
But silent as the grave.

No sound itself,
No sight itself,
Only movement.

But Aspen leaves,
And Aspen groves,
Moving, rustling,
Whispering, talking.

Each leaf a single voice,
Each branch a quiet chorus,
Each tree a mighty legion.

The grove a roaring,
Rushing, soaring,
Loud yet stilling,
Calm and peace.

Constant movement,
Loud but softly,
The Aspens lull me,
To my rest.

she was called forth
from the rain, sing-screaming through
the lonesome pines, scattering needles
like a ****** angel; stomping
the dust into mud.

festivals strung on her wrists, the
flags shouting louder through leaves
than even that hung-up sun could muster.
rocks rambled up her spine, feet
calloused from dancing, she shrugged,
suspended above the moss.

                                                          ­the fire was never so bright.
would the black streets in a
harsh, dead city be deeper or
stronger than this?, can the skyscrapers
cut open clouds with their teeth
like she gnashed through God's hair
and tangled the sound of her blood
with the river?
                                                         even her chin was a boulder;
                                                        ­ her knees flat skipping stones.

she wore soft bark and orange.
(aspens on hillsides with sunsets,
roots blending with bones and vein
                                                and skin)
her hair spread out as a tree underwater,
or braided tight into vines.

a cup in each hand,
a sword in her mouth,
a wand on her waist,
pentacles on every inch,
forever breathing with the skin
of the earth.

and when she had left:
the missions departed, coals are black
in the cold city, skies scraped and scabbing.
burnt with the deep of a flame-led
memory.

the shallow graves upturned and cried out
into the rain,
*where has the base of my stream
flown from, if not the sharp
scent of her skin?
what shadow have I carried if not
an absence tied under my feet to
only  be free in the morning
with her hair in my mouth?

where does the river flow
from here?

Shimmering, quivering, aspens,
bask in the evening sun;
peaks of the mountains high,
grow purple as day is done.

In the dense, dark pockets of spruce,
the streams run fast and clear;
the forest, strong and silent,
harbor the wolves and deer.

It's spring-time in Arizona,
the intrigue of nature's show;
in glorious sun and shadow,
that causes the heart to glow.

It's the stillness of the meadow,
that tempers the buzz of day;
that in quiet meditation,
shows its presence, now, in May.

I drink the nectar of splendor,
and gaze at the feast of the mind;
contented to be here... to see,
the painting, that I alone find.

In the deep hollows of an abandoned mineshaft,
poised under the giant reaching claws of ancient
machinery,
I found love.

At the top of the tunnel it was summer.
The aspens rustled their little dollop leaves at us;
the dirt under our feet ran down the mountain before us;
and the wind swept away the scent of us.
Into the trees, perhaps into space,
all the way to wherever our thoughts lay nestled close,
nearly touching.

Love is in the woods, he said.
True Love and True Nature
are the only things
we can always access,
no matter how far,
no matter how long ago.

Coldest I ever been,
summer,start to end.
frosty breaths,
while body sweats.
pens of cold chisel,
melting isicle.
snow laden aspens,
in sun beat athens.
boast of cutting edge,
no forge, but sledge.

"love afar, spite at home,"
a city, cold as stone.

( * Ralph Emerson's Essay on charity)
( Trimontane is Boston's colonial French name,Tramontane is a play on words with the def of Tramontane)

Cool breezes whip the grass bellow
The scent of sweet lilac
The breezes blow softly to you as if it welcomes you
You marvel at the beauty of the grove
Rows and rows of beautiful flowers
A clear and bubbling stream passes you
Tall aspens surround you
Protecting you like a big brother
A loud bird begins its evening caw
An orange tang flavor comes creeping into your mouth
Reaching down to feel the prickly grass
Soft, peace envelops you
Quickly, quietly you fall asleep

when the
aspen trees gather
in red autumn
still
we hear
the pastel colors
whistling through
this sacred wind

while you were eating
cherry pie that sunday
after i reached for your
hand and your fingers
didn't curl around mine--

i took to the trees behind the cabin
and stayed the mossy grove buried
in this golden scratch
the neighbor's conversation downwind
about the mountain lion they'd spotted
and the spiritual sort of fear I felt with
my eyes closed, the mechanical click
of my own heartbeat, how things
used to flow and now they only
swarmed,
always
swallowed.

i was singing songs to call you out,
like you did the first time, when you
came up around the hillside and
followed me a ways out--
softly at first and then no more,
replaced by the force that came
upon me, where suddenly I was
uprooting trees, picking the most
desolate, gnarled aspens--unhinging
their roots to press my heel into their
soft bases, hulking forward and watching
them stretch out and out and out--

I found old yarn and tied
it for later, to find, to untie
to hope for second chances
I left the copse and you were


eating cherry pie on the porch
rummaging through coolers
oil sloshing through your bones
dragon fire in your blood
hard-headed over puerile matters
over your time, over the weeks
staunchly grounded into your own
wild western ways,

The duck's back, the bear's pelt
You've been roaming alone in the forests
As the beasts do, the lost, the frightened,
Admiring the darkness of your own shadow
The way it draws and casts away,
Doubly conflicted of your nature that
Mostly takes and takes and takes
Bears and
Men and
You.