I was sitting on a park bench in December
Whence we met
Just watching my breath steam
In wisps and curls about my head
I sat there in silence for a time
Attempting to discover who this being was
I recognized her not
Though she was mine own age
Eventually, I knew her gaze
And I looked into her eyes
Just to see her intention
How her fate would affect mine
I recognized her now and spoke
But my voice filled with fear
And my heart filled with ice
But as time went on,
My resolve grew strong
And my head cleared of its eternal strife.
I bellowed aloud
Just so she would hear.
My voice deepened with anger
And I proclaimed,
“It’s not my time yet,
I must remain.
I have not known love,
Life’s great joy.
This is the reason I live,
I am but a lonely boy.
And I have found another
Whom I hold dear.
She widens my grin,
From ear to ear.
I would like my chance,
To make her happy.
To feel life’s greatest joy,
To be a daddy.
So give me some time,
And come back for me then,
I will greet you
Like a dear old friend.”
And so she rose,
What a beautiful sight,
All surrounded by gray and white.
I stood entranced
By beauty unmatched,
As she whirled about
And looked at me last.
She spoke not a word,
Let no sound free.
But the look in her eyes
Was one of understanding.
And slowly she left,
Absorbed entirely
By some great shadow
Nearby me.
On that gray-wintered day,
While I sat in the park,
A young girl as death
And I talked.
Though she spoke not a word,
She showed me my path.
I know what I want in life,
What I can have.
And so before she comes again,
If I do everything right,
I can live a just
And fulfilling life.
Death may come,
And death may go.
But never a footprint
Has she left in the gray-wintered snow.

you are may
i am december
kisses exchanged
during the bluing hour
child like
staring at you
in wonder and amazement
frosting night
falling snow
flakes in your auburn hair
i walk you home
in the cold frigid air
holding your hand
dreaming of you

you are rare
a beacon
a lighthouse
in a storm
in my daydreams
you are the pixie, the fairy inspiring me  
at night
you are the siren, i surrender to

a trifecta of youth, beauty, personality
you are refreshingly young
spring in my wintered life
preternaturally beautiful
perfection come to life
your femininity bewitching  
your youth intoxicating
your mannerism seducing
i would do anything for you

oozing sensuality
innocences
of a woman on the cusp
you hunger for sophistication
to be worldly-wise
seeking passage guidance
from an experienced traveller
the trade, the deal, is timeless
refined by evolution  

i am humbled
to have been chosen
the ultimate champion
of your ****** selection
in turn, you are my trophy
the spoils
of a never ending war

i know our time is short
the span of a bloom
a season at most
i know the outcome
seen the devastation
the problem is
we think we have time

Cold, blue, wet, fragile, brittle, hard, steam solidified, water hardened, anger, fear, white, tensile,

steam solidified,
water hardened; you lie
in her wintered veins.

why?

"If she's awake, I'll **** you."
staccato words spoken
like a knife blade thrown...
...with malice and intent.

Her father's voice
from the bedroom next door
no sound of her mother.

The female child cowered
under her candy-striped sheets
their usual soft comfort
unnoticed

footsteps
door handle moving
light seeping into her sanctuary

her heart thudded
trying to escape her chest
as she held her breath.

"Please, please don't hear me."
a silent plea as
fear snatched her in its icy grip.

She could smell him
smell the cigarettes
smell his power.

She waited.

He backed out
returned to her mother
between her heartbeats
she heard the slap

"You are lucky this time,
*****. She sleeps."
Heavy footsteps down the stairs
punctuated by her mother's tears.

                            ~~~~~~~~~~~

The girl child had only ever blamed her mother
decades of anger and bitterness
the memory of this night buried deep.
Crazed hard ice beneath the tundra of her life.

In the third decade of the girl child's life
her mother died
alone
never forgiven for what she hadn't done
nor for what she had.

The ice remained in the girl child's veins
If anything, thicker...harder.

Then in her fifth decade this ice became water
as with the passage of life the tundra thawed
and rising with it to the surface
the truth.

Then what?

The girl child worked hard at staying warm
at keeping the ice at bay.
Not easy.

Nothing was ever said to her father.

In her sixth decade the girl child's father died
embraced in his daughter's arms
forgiven for what he had done
and for what he hadn't.

The woman had finally thawed
she was properly warm
her own love
finally able to flow

1.

I am thirty this November.
You are still small, in your fourth year.
We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer,
flapping in the winter rain.
falling flat and washed. And I remember
mostly the three autumns you did not live here.
They said I'd never get you back again.
I tell you what you'll never really know:
all the medical hypothesis
that explained my brain will never be as true as these
struck leaves letting go.

I, who chose two times
to **** myself, had said your nickname
the mewling mouths when you first came;
until a fever rattled
in your throat and I moved like a pantomine
above your head. Ugly angels spoke to me. The blame,
I heard them say, was mine. They tattled
like green witches in my head, letting doom
leak like a broken faucet;
as if doom had flooded my belly and filled your bassinet,
an old debt I must assume.

Death was simpler than I'd thought.
The day life made you well and whole
I let the witches take away my guilty soul.
I pretended I was dead
until the white men pumped the poison out,
putting me armless and washed through the rigamarole
of talking boxes and the electric bed.
I laughed to see the private iron in that hotel.
Today the yellow leaves
go queer. You ask me where they go I say today believed
in itself, or else it fell.

Today, my small child, Joyce,
love your self's self where it lives.
There is no special God to refer to; or if there is,
why did I let you grow
in another place. You did not know my voice
when I came back to call. All the superlatives
of tomorrow's white tree and mistletoe
will not help you know the holidays you had to miss.
The time I did not love
myself, I visited your shoveled walks; you held my glove.
There was new snow after this.

2.

They sent me letters with news
of you and I made moccasins that I would never use.
When I grew well enough to tolerate
myself, I lived with my mother, the witches said.
But I didn't leave. I had my portrait
done instead.

Part way back from Bedlam
I came to my mother's house in Gloucester,
Massachusetts. And this is how I came
to catch at her; and this is how I lost her.
I cannot forgive your suicide, my mother said.
And she never could. She had my portrait
done instead.

I lived like an angry guest,
like a partly mended thing, an outgrown child.
I remember my mother did her best.
She took me to Boston and had my hair restyled.
Your smile is like your mother's, the artist said.
I didn't seem to care. I had my portrait
done instead.

There was a church where I grew up
with its white cupboards where they locked us up,
row by row, like puritans or shipmates
singing together. My father passed the plate.
Too late to be forgiven now, the witches said.
I wasn't exactly forgiven. They had my portrait
done instead.

3.

All that summer sprinklers arched
over the seaside grass.
We talked of drought
while the salt-parched
field grew sweet again. To help time pass
I tried to mow the lawn
and in the morning I had my portrait done,
holding my smile in place, till it grew formal.
Once I mailed you a picture of a rabbit
and a postcard of Motif number one,
as if it were normal
to be a mother and be gone.

They hung my portrait in the chill
north light, matching
me to keep me well.
Only my mother grew ill.
She turned from me, as if death were catching,
as if death transferred,
as if my dying had eaten inside of her.
That August you were two, by I timed my days with doubt.
On the first of September she looked at me
and said I gave her cancer.
They carved her sweet hills out
and still I couldn't answer.

4.

That winter she came
part way back
from her sterile suite
of doctors, the seasick
cruise of the X-ray,
the cells' arithmetic
gone wild. Surgery incomplete,
the fat arm, the prognosis poor, I heard
them say.

During the sea blizzards
she had here
own portrait painted.
A cave of mirror
placed on the south wall;
matching smile, matching contour.
And you resembled me; unacquainted
with my face, you wore it. But you were mine
after all.

I wintered in Boston,
childless bride,
nothing sweet to spare
with witches at my side.
I missed your babyhood,
tried a second suicide,
tried the sealed hotel a second year.
On April Fool you fooled me. We laughed and this
was good.

5.

I checked out for the last time
on the first of May;
graduate of the mental cases,
with my analysts's okay,
my complete book of rhymes,
my typewriter and my suitcases.

All that summer I learned life
back into my own
seven rooms, visited the swan boats,
the market, answered the phone,
served cocktails as a wife
should, made love among my petticoats

and August tan. And you came each
weekend. But I lie.
You seldom came. I just pretended
you, small piglet, butterfly
girl with jelly bean cheeks,
disobedient three, my splendid

stranger. And I had to learn
why I would rather
die than love, how your innocence
would hurt and how I gather
guilt like a young intern
his symptons, his certain evidence.

That October day we went
to Gloucester the red hills
reminded me of the dry red fur fox
coat I played in as a child; stock still
like a bear or a tent,
like a great cave laughing or a red fur fox.

We drove past the hatchery,
the hut that sells bait,
past Pigeon Cove, past the Yacht Club, past Squall's
Hill, to the house that waits
still, on the top of the sea,
and two portraits hung on the opposite walls.

6.

In north light, my smile is held in place,
the shadow marks my bone.
What could I have been dreaming as I sat there,
all of me waiting in the eyes, the zone
of the smile, the young face,
the foxes' snare.

In south light, her smile is held in place,
her cheeks wilting like a dry
orchid; my mocking mirror, my overthrown
love, my first image. She eyes me from that face
that stony head of death
I had outgrown.

The artist caught us at the turning;
we smiled in our canvas home
before we chose our foreknown separate ways.
The dry redfur fox coat was made for burning.
I rot on the wall, my own
Dorian Gray.

And this was the cave of the mirror,
that double woman who stares
at herself, as if she were petrified
in time -- two ladies sitting in umber chairs.
You kissed your grandmother
and she cried.

7.

I could not get you back
except for weekends. You came
each time, clutching the picture of a rabbit
that I had sent you. For the last time I unpack
your things. We touch from habit.
The first visit you asked my name.
Now you will stay for good. I will forget
how we bumped away from each other like marionettes
on strings. It wasn't the same
as love, letting weekends contain
us. You scrape your knee. You learn my name,
wobbling up the sidewalk, calling and crying.
You can call me mother and I remember my mother again,
somewhere in greater Boston, dying.

I remember we named you Joyce
so we could call you Joy.
You came like an awkward guest
that first time, all wrapped and moist
and strange at my heavy breast.
I needed you. I didn't want a boy,
only a girl, a small milky mouse
of a girl, already loved, already loud in the house
of herself. We named you Joy.
I, who was never quite sure
about being a girl, needed another
life, another image to remind me.
And this was my worst guilt; you could not cure
or soothe it. I made you to find me.

In winter air,
the siren rings
among the leafless trees.

The night,
it falls too quickly.
The days,
they sleep too soon.
I much prefer the stretched
and strengthened days of June.

Leave be the creaking bones of snow,
Let pass this fragile moon.
I much prefer the waxed and wakened days of June.

I don’t mind
the brighter skies,
the holidays,
the giving ways,
but I much prefer the stretched
and strengthened days of June.

When all my five and country senses see,
The fingers will forget green thumbs and mark
How, through the halfmoon's vegetable eye,
Husk of young stars and handfull zodiac,
Love in the frost is pared and wintered by,
The whispering ears will watch love drummed away
Down breeze and shell to a discordant beach,
And, lashed to syllables, the lynx tongue cry
That her fond wounds are mended bitterly.
My nostrils see her breath burn like a bush.

My one and noble heart has witnesses
In all love's countries, that will ***** awake;
And when blind sleep drops on the spying senses,
The heart is sensual, though five eyes break.

wrapped in the tatters of my body
in this measureless place

I search for release
among the disconsolate boles
thin as hope
hard and dark

wearing pallid shrouds
of frozen lace
proudly displayed
in their alfresco mausoleum

an inexhaustible study
in the extremes
of leaden purity

their moribund limbs
and ice sheathed fingers
reach into me
pulling me on

tears of other lives
in frosted glory
cold upon my wintered face

always renewed
and living on
in fractal eternity

Seeing you is like watching an earth-moving force
A comet sent to wipe out the species of thought
Dinosaurs, crawling- viscous
The plains of my body, earth
The sky falling into itself
Spilling out the wonders of the heavens
The twinkling-diamond sharp plains of your wit
And the rich –muddy-mire of heart

Your body a magnet I gravitate
The pull of your skin,
Crushed -velvet fingers finding fixed hold
On dipped shoulder plains
A breath to warm wintered cheeks
Stretching the kiss of blushed smile
Completely surrounded embraced by the sun

Furnace, summer-heat
Growing, budding in the freshly -sweetened air of love
Flowering, the temple walls well taken care of
Watered with the wealth of your affection
Contented with you attention

Your gaze
Your praise
By everything that is you
This earthly temple humming and infused
Quaking with the intensity of acceptance
While continuing her latest obsession
Lonely earth, she who is unlike other cosmic forms

A blip in the eyes of some
But behold the brilliance of which she shines
Golden hair and sea green eye
Beneath the brilliance of her sun
By his gravity she has become
More beautiful by far
The earth and her heated star.

HEART-SHIP

About me, I swear down.
I'll tell thee of treks – how I in radged-days
put up with fretted-time,
sought abode and still do, get bitter ***-care,
in us heart-ship, scary waves’ rolling,
where narrow neet-ogle
often kept us at heart-ship’s stem
when it scurries by cliffs.

Us feet clammed by cold,
bound by frost’s frozen cold steel,
where those frets sighed
marfin about heart;
clemmed within ripped
mind of sea-knackered.

2.  CARE-BEGGARED

Town lads have it soft, dunt know nowt
as how us, care-beggared, ice-scratched sea dwellers wintered in exile,
swayed from mates and kin,
rigged with rime-crystals.
Hail stones bounced off our decks.
I heard nowt there but sea’s groan,
ice-flecked seas furrow. Heard at times summat like swan’s. And made glad by gannet’s and curlew's clamour,
for homely laughter,
gull-shriek for bitter ale.
Hail beat up stone-cliffs, where feathered
spray nattered to them; often eagles dew-feathered screamed.
No mates sheltered us,
or made us feel minded.

Town folk dunt credit it,
complacent with blessings
and few baleful journeys –
proud and wine-sozzled, how I, knackered,
often on sea-snickets had to abide.
Night-shadow snuffed us out;
snow fell from the north;
rime bound soil; hail felled earth
coldest of corns. So, now, thoughts
mither my heart, that I the deep sea,
salt-waves, should fetch myself on.

3. NOR

Salt yearn moves us gently.
Desire is a gust catcher.
Heart-ship bobs in its harbour,
as it pitches and yaws
to stranger islands.
Refugees homeland seek.
Though embarking, the reckless, skilful, youthful, brave,
do not know what life has in store.
Nor my hands on harp or on coin,
on lasses limbs delight,
nor on owt save wayward water.


4. UNWINTER

These woodlands unwinter too much with blossom,
give too much gold to villages, overbrighten meadows. World pushes on, all this urges us,
doom minded spirits to leave on flood-ways.
Heart-ship tugs at moorings.
Summer cuckoo's mournful call urges,
bodes sorrow, bitter in breast-hoard.
If tha blessed with comfort, how does tha know what some endure on tracks of exile?


5. WHALE-WEND

Heart-ship tugs at its harbour.
My imagination in mere-flood,
in whale plunge, wide in its turns
eager for seas vastness. Gannet yells
as whale-wends, spirit quickens over holm’s deep, irresistible delights of life are more
than this life that flits on land.
Illness, old age and aggression
wrests life away, bests breath.

6. PRAISE OF LIFE

Praise life. Before tha death
tha must climb mast against malice,
shun dodgy devils. Days stale,
earth’s grandeur beggared,
now no bosses, gold-givers gone,
glorious deeds done,
live out their doom.
Joys stale, weak rule this world,
live here afflicted. Glory humbled,
earth grows old, withers this November.
Old age fares over thee; tha bright face pale;
gray-haired, tha grieves over tha mates
given to the sod. Homeless tha flesh, then, when life is lost to thee, tha cannot sweet swallow nor sore feel, hand stir nor mind think.
Tha gold means nowt beside graves of tha mates, that proud deed will not go with thee,
gold is no help to a self full of itself.

7.   THE MEASURER

The world's craftsman is a Measurer
that turns the earth. Founder of fields
and sky. Only the foolish mess with it
and die unexpected. Tha must be humble.
The Measurer helps them be strong
as is minded in steer of their heart-ship
wise in tha decisions, clean in tha ways.
Anchor tha fire or be burned.
  Fate is stronger Measurer than any a tha thought.
Harbour is a life long in love of Earth,
hope int skies. Through all rough tides
and smooth trust in water and the sod.

in winter
the earth becomes
hard & mean
won't allow my summer flowers
even stops
the grass green growing
making months
out of hours

it's the gentleness
in her voice
that takes me back
to lullabies
of the golden harp

the strings plucked
like her vocal cords
sing soft chords
of grace

the curved physique
of her body
fits the mold
of an angel

rounded shoulders
provide comfort
where the teary
come to rest

and when she sings
i see my childhood
i feel the pillow
'neath my head

when she sings
i hear her sacrifice
and feel the wings
of her prayers

when she sings
i swear the melody
gives life
to wintered tulips

mother of mine
your love
it is the beauty
of the golden harp

- p. winter

wrap your summer fingers
around her wintered soul

The Pigs
symbolize for me now
the hell
that was the year that just fell away
a year now spent and in ruins
dropped off like a golden husk
dead cobra flesh
summer sugared flakes of skin,
torn with teeth from a wintered mouth

The Pigs were an omen on that day
last January
day of first blizzard and weather churn,
sleet and howling,
first day of white knuckles and prickling thighs,
first day of numb chins and jowls,
thick and gummy feeling against hands

dead and uncovered in the back
of a grisly pickup truck
The Pigs came into existence,
piled ten feet high and fifteen long,
bodies jutting stiff and macabre
reaching for the sky, blank and indifferent.

I remember being disturbed by their enormous heads
and the way the ice formed a crust over their bodies
binding them one to another-snout to useless ***, milky underbelly
to back
creating not a pile
but a mass.
Somewhat
globular.

I watched
mesmerized by them in their sorrowful death bed,
gliding over black ice down that empty leg of highway,
black beautiful forests woven into color hungry sky
and chalky fields on all sides
devouring sound
I felt numb and small on the back of that prairie stretch
In my blacks and my wools,
gut colored scarf around my throat
Stuffed into my panting mouth
Breath freezing to the yarn and to my lips
Cold wet song escaping me
-my protest against the freeze that held me
Music about wolves against my ears-the haunting lyrics
Stumbled upon by a man with ancient desires, the need for
Animal blood, stone dwellings and strong women

This collage woven by the senses
Became me in that moment
For me a holy moment-every piece of me engaged and
Acute
Body clenched, mind awhirl, ears ringing, eyes filled with white

And then The Pigs whipped past me-in their resting place of crusted steel and chipping
Paint, their eyes clenched like hundreds of tiny fists,
Their mouths open and crookedly petrified
around the last breath of their lifesong
Their flesh as pink as the day they were born
Their minds and organs preserved by the patient
hands of Manitoba winter
The smell of death was imagined then-I was
Stricken by the harsh, wet scent of flesh
Against the back of my throat it lingered for only a moment

In that moment I was complete

I blinked and The Pigs were beyond me-one hundred miles an hour
to nowhere beautiful
And I was left with a sense of awe and a thousand questions
Death riding my thoughts
Hand against my padded heart

I moved forward in time-caught my ride
Which followed the tracks gouged by
The ***** pick-up for a little while
Something small and true stirring within me
Protected beneath all of my meticulous layers
A new awareness of something
dark and curious in the world.

Sunshine yawns, stretches and cracks through the sullen black out curtains of december.
it shudders my eyes to see what's like an earthquake in the sky.
mighty cries of yellow and gold speed through the coal of my horizon like a bamboo vine
like the wrinkles and ***** of an old school football beaten and broken by the ***** shoes of nasty schoolboys
frightening the mighty oppressors.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

I walk
I with a capital I because the quake of light resolves my sadness for a second or two.

a stillness in the air that
all that is lost is lost
and all that is won is won
and all we can do is rejoice in the now.

the light
presses the skeletons of naked wintered trees onto the bus' window
now pale and murky with the last of the black frost.
their bony fingers wrapped around my bus with the natural cradle of a mother to her new born babe.
I am one.
white puffs of yes tickle the big blue pond of nothingness while
steel bands of gold stretch across what was once such a dark and frightening place where i would become withered and broken as a plant beside a patient,
dying with them.
stretches over me like I'm looking up from beneath the bridge
instead of down to the sea below.

the sunlight washes an old town in gold
making it clean again.
the darkness is over and the new has begun.
all we have to do
hell, all we can do
is absorb it.
experience it.
survive it.
my pestering thoughts join me in looking across at what has been the source or so many sleepless nights for me and others;
together in peace for a few tender moments,
a football game in 1914, Christmas day.
January is now
spring is now
life is now.
he is here.
sunlight has awoken and is laughing with me once more.
I am in love.
and I am happy.

the bells of spring
peel like the layers of darkness above my head.
life is infinite once more
and the sunlight dances on the grave of sadness
and the world plays in major chord again.

The Earth
is one big ball of twine
Every person has a piece of string lacing up their leg, like ballet slippers that you can walk on
You don’t dance through life on pedestrian slippers
There’s no form of tap, jazz, or hip-hop that’ll keep you from knotting your threads with mine
So as you sit in a cafe in Paris
sipping limonade and watching the river of people on the Champs-Elysees
You’ll pretend you don’t feel a tug on your ankle
from that the little fille in Hong Kong who got an A on her test
the teenager kneeling down to rest a rose on the cross with a Jewish étoile
the old man letting out the sail as his bow skims la ocean
As you stand up from the cafe table let yourself be pulled into a dance
People these days
abuelo says
like people are spit off the tip of his tongue
People these days
always rushing to a place they don’t have to get to yet
Back in my day
in my dia
everything
was
just
slow
Back in your day abuelo
Back in your day
there weren’t seven billion people that had dance slippers made of twine
there weren’t so many playing cat’s cradle with their feet
People rush because they do have somewhere to go
Somewhere to be
obviously, that somewhere to be is not where they’re rushing to
obviously, they wouldn’t go where they’re being pulled
obviously, abuelo

So my abuelo can tap his feet to seven billion cats‘s cradles
As you scrape your feet along french pavestones in Paris
And the twine will knot and twist and make all of us dance
to the beat of the world instead of the beat of sound
because music is made using hands, not feet
and under your feet
there’ll be a ring ring ring
from an Earth made of twine
the best sort of telephones
were always the ones made of Campbell’s soup and string
and as the world goes to voicemail
you might tap answer with your feet
say a prayer-
miss you, please-
I’m sorry, I didn’t-
There’s no way-
What? I can’t-
On that off sort of chance
You pressed answer
and all the messages come flooding in
Pressing answer is like cutting a wire
the electricity sparks and freezes
the caller is stuck
Your answer is like trying to speak over a jet engine to someone underwater
Silence is the loudest muffler for anyone who
Doesn’t want to hear it-
You just don’t understand-
I can’t believe you!-
Wrong, you’re wrong-
Someone else hears a ring from their soup-can-and-twine
You let your’s drop down and tangle with ballet shoes made for walking

Humans are alive for one hundred years
People only live for eighty or so
From when you were a little baby, you’ve felt the beat of a thousand hearts
The breath of a thousand dreams
The spark of a thousand smiles
Through the ribbons of twine that wound up your ankles
But the older you get
The more you fray
And it shows in bruised eyes, callused fingers, wintered hair
That you’ve been walking for as many days as the earth is wide
Collected enough footprints to feed a soul on stories
And when you die
mourir
pethaíno̱
umierać
Death cuts your string with his blunt-honed scythe
Your voice goes from the twine that twisted up your ankles
To the crystallized light that filters in between the leaves of trees
The crackle of firewood on a misty evening
The waves that slip on shell-laden sand
You won’t move so much as whisper
Talk so much as laugh
Be so much as exist
The earth is a ball of twine
We all walk in pedestrian ballet slippers
Die into beauty that we’d never thought we’d flow to
Never going where we need to or where we want to be
Your string is caught up in a thousand others
Twisted with mis-steps and calls made over soup cans
We are a thousand beats off rhythm in melody
A thousand stories in tugs and sound


Welcome to Earth
A world of 7 billion connections
Silence instead of answers
Once thousand languages to say seven billion stories
french pavestones in Paris
abuelos who step in rhythm
Dead who live in warmth
Welcome to earth
Population: twined

Emily will take her cedar box
of hidden poems
throwing them on a Sou’ Westerly breeze
in a New England Spring —

They will be snatched and fly
daring, dainty flutter byes
across the stretching continent
the Great Plains and New Frontiers —
The Sun — rising in ribbons
Mountains dripping scarlet sunsets
vast Miles of Evening Sparks —
as the Hemispheres come home
to early Night —

they’ll be read by lonely cowboys
drinking whisky, in the sagebrush
Indian braves campfire smoking
Sung in Saloons by husky-voiced dames
can-can dressed and a whole lotta grit
and gumption.

Emily, lightened of her load
unknotted the Skein of Misery —
Universe unstitched —
in this moment of escape
Landscape will listen —
Shadows will hold their breath
until the words are spoken.

Emily’s skipping down the stairs
of that morbid, cold wintered house
with its bare Slants of Light —
rushing out the door
throwing herself on the Open day —

Telling True, but slanted.

I'm young but aged at heart,
I'm content but desperate in mind.
Loving but never feeling its return,
Cold and jaded I hide behind:
A wintered abandoned art of patience,
A bite thats hard and unrelenting.
A Tearing temper spent to embers,

To all that mock me i make bleed.
To kiss me is poisenous,
For my heart beat is venomous.
Take a chance and feel corrosion.
**** a shadow and feel it drain you,

You will never be the one i run too.
You will never undo what has been done.
You are the reason there is no colour,
In hollow eyes and skin so lifeless.

On the flight path down from Quebec
in the recent past, they say,
The lead goose saw a foursome
on the fairway, hard at play.

Their clothing was intriguing
Bright Argyles and Staid plaids
Little lackeys followed them,
carrying their bags.

The goose brigade lost interest
in proceeding South that day.
Instead they landed on the course
intent on watching play.

The lead Goose now spent all his time
At Bethpage, on the Black,
and honked golf commentary
to all his fledgling flock.

This lead Goose was the First,
brave Avian pioneer,
who broke the pattern going South-
instead he wintered here.

The Geese are protected by the law,
so we have no recourse.
We can't hunt down these honkers
who are greasing up the course.

Within one human lifetime-
a revolutionary change.
the geese have all stopped flying South
They're students of the game.

i.
Eve has hands like a wrecked garden: dirt caked under her fingernails, wild and vicious and thorn-covered; wild and sunstruck and crawling. She presses her palms into the grass underneath the orchards and prays a blasphemy.

ii.
This is how it goes: there is always a boy, or maybe a snake. There is a time before, with the darkness so whole and absolute it chokes, and there is a time after, with burning light and shame so heavy it puts you on your knees.
This is how it goes: your summerborn cheeks flushed but your eyes cold and barren and wintered.
This is how it goes: you are made from bones that never settled into the earth.

iii.
The apples hanging from the trees have gone nearly overripe and heavy, bending from the boughs and flushed red.
Eve has a mouth sticky-sweet and soft, a body like a rosebush in bloom.
Eve has a bird's nest of hair that calls home only vultures.
This is how it goes: there is always a hunger for more.

iv.
Eve presses her palms against the planes of her stomach, against the soft curves the moon has smoothed onto her.
Eve presses her palms into the grass and howls: *"I will not bear you fruit."

Tell me please
does the grey granite faced
northern heather scarp
or the smooth enchanting
Carrara marble cherub
move you to awe?
Does nature only
wintered weathered
sheer and simple
eclipse the man made
man handled
alabaster angel?

Bleak beauty

Tell me my friend
does your head turn
as the high cheek-*****
short haired
practical passes
a flash of scarlet
lipped?
Or do you arrest
as a foundation creation
glosses across your horizon
loping on heels and too knowing?

Bleak Beauty

I must ask you
my brother
When you cause to sleep
does your angel
appear
and does
the gentle
perfection of her
supra-sternal notch
ever stay with you
til morning?

(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

.

I stood at the gate
and was shocked to find
the clasp unfastened

It swung freely on its hinges
as if it had not a care
to whom might enter or leave

I looked out towards the horizon
across the wintered over field,
a stark white landscape

I saw nothing but barren trees with
twisted branches creaking,
silhouettes reaching on an opaque sky

I felt scared and nervous, what
would happen now that the entryway
to my life had been left open

Then I felt someone take my hand,
and looking to my right, there you were,
smiling a sunrise on my face

The day began to sing
in sweet breezes, soft on my skin,
gathering warmly in my heart

So I pulled the gate closed,
secured it tightly and felt the first
hint of spring in your kiss

Let us write a poem about love.
Can we be holy?

When we love - do we become holy?

Well yes - and absolutely -
when we love all.

Something softened me.
Too many yesterdays,
all those invisible tomorrows.

I look for their footprints
in snows not yet fallen.

a brown cabin -
wintered up - ready for
bedtime Westerns,
mexican standoffs -
sleep
and  perfectly empty

Pile in with me, where it is warm.
A marvel! How your hands rest, your perfume Ivory soap,
the shiny skin of your pimpled back,
a glaze of hair on your forearm. Designed by heaven
to be put behind my neck.

I am not made of sparks -
I am made of soft slow fires and
sunsets.

I stand 'neath wintered sky

And mock by my life

Winged Goddesses.

Bolts from on high,

Blue crackling death,

Thrown with careless hand

Have not felled me.

Surrounded by their circling  fury

I smile

My body is battered

But my arrow is true.

Black  and fleet

Their wings churn the sky.

They point now  to one of their own

I have winged a Valkyrie

.......a parade of thoughts,
crowd its tip......sad...sweet,
scary...unpleasant...pleasant,
hopeful...or prohibited,thoughts
come.....one after the other,
like white circled smokes from a spectre,
smoking....hiding, behind the curtain,
triggered by a song, a verse, or somethin'
else.....like a photo, a voice...a memory...

when they come to haunt...and taunt
..... i just bow my head,
and let my  pen stand *****
or lean inside my palm,
allow it to make curves, loops and  
lines, to cross out untimely thoughts
on white blank pages...
pen struggles with me--whether or not, to share
my likes, dislikes, my disgust, fears, my despair...
my endless questions are frozen...wintered
within...i wonder, will they remain unuttered?
....the answers, as before, are uncertain...
.........my discontent, oh, so apparent...
::::
.....when i hold my pen...is when my soul
breathes and relaxes...it journeys...i forget all,
....hunger pangs do not enter my mind
..my troubled self....and the peaceful me
....join forces....their combined energy
flow freely, inside my inner streams...
...i sit tall when they bring out the best in me,
...wonder if i could bring back worst moments,
......and correct the wrong in them...but,
who's to say what is right? what is wrong?

when i hold my pen, i realize its might,
its omnipotent power....its written bold words,
exclamations, lines, commas, dots and dashes,
can incite, or douse strong actions and feelings
it softens the sharp edges of anger and pain
it can puncture deeper...better than a sword,
it can heal...soothe wounds and  slashes
.................inflicted by other pens


........when i hold my pen,
i let it speak for me...time and again...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 21, 2018

I mouthed beer breathed approbation
at the invited wonder of your sister's sweatered *******
the tableau set then,
for such delicious beginnings and shaky revisions,
once I  left the "look but do not touch" misgivings
amongst the litter of a thousand such instructions

I borrowed that hazel eyed angel for a night
rescued from drowning in a clear bottled wasp trap
the fattened marital photo was covered,
alternating friends corrected and reassigned
their alibis and frightened lies
while heaven was briefly in our sights

and we shook and screamed the clearing of our names
from every future Christmas list

and yet

clearance comes only once inventory becomes stale
and folds around your wintered house,
offers no plan to buy or stamp a route to someplace else

slow submissions rattle my pen
this is no season for love and there is no reason to begin
other than there, in the shadows, where portraits breed desire

and while mirrors shall dream of falling
I am not through looking yet
for while fun and feuds begin with *******
an ending always screams attention

I watch the sunset fade
beneath angry wintered seas
cresting furiously,
drowning possibilities
of another moonlit night
washing up on this
frostbitten shoreline

Fading reflections falter
atop a jet stream,
coerced from below,
chilled from above,
willing feats of great wandering
as sleet licks old wounds
and footprints
become yesterday puddles
of journeys ending

Castaways cling to ancient dreams,
their treasures sinking deeper
in the murky silt,
while I brace against a frigid wind,
traversing drifting dunes
and snow fence barriers,
heading towards the light

A lone flickering candle
left in the bay window,
the flame, a signal
that your love still awaits,
and my heart warms
as I approach the beauty
I have so longed,
on the other side of
a blue weathered door…

There quiet you lay
Body cold as wintered day
Hurting in silence
Subject to violence
Waiting for the coming of May.

Oft is it compared, a sky of gray, and a day of drear.
It is with these muted colors that bring me the utmost of joys.
Perhaps it is your ashen qualities spawning somber, sullen feelings.
I repent, for this most assuredly won’t be made about you.
On the loose:

The life of a snowflake,
A wintered rain,
Frozen tentacles of a symmetrical dream,
Gone with the wind,
Heaven, fallen to earth.
Perhaps it is that I wish the sky to be falling
unto me
in a star-stricken
phantasy.

the forgiveness came

suddenly like the break of a day so bright
and so hot in springtime mess,
like that first blazing lashing
of sunshine so brazen upon wintered flesh
upon skin, gentle
like the sound of a lamb’s feet on soft mud,
skin, white
and cool as milk.

it came with a perfect and welcomed brutality-
burning slowly,
definitely,
defiantly.

forgiveness came,
so enormous with sadness-
a sense of loss profound as the bruised velveteen of a
sky ripe
with summer heat and
the full, squeaky sound
of june-happy,
beer-drunk teenagers
biting one another’s lips in dewy fields.

the forgiveness came so clear

it tasted in my mouth like penny bile.

it pulled in my heart like a small perfect spoon pulls
through honey sat uncovered three days too long
on a windowsill
the ripples folding over themselves slowly,
grey and golden with sugar.

the forgiveness changed me right then, as
the loss of you changed
me before.

it struck me.
it was holy.
it carved something
smaller, newer, smoother
out of this life.
a glimpse of my core
was revealed then.

the perfect part of me-the finest grain
the purest fragrance
most sensual to the touch

my core-what I grew from, what my life swirls around
my core-what breaks light into fractals, what is heavy for it’s size
what is pure and secret in me

through this forgiveness is unveiled
for the first time
since I was born.

As wasted sunlight drops upon the skin of atoms,
I sigh limpid ghosts along hell’s diamond eyes.
Out they shake with gusts of dubiety.

Ouch!

The glow ignites my wintered skin.
The rarest turns to pain again,
Yet, I am safe in lush calm sin.
I wish to saunter home again.
- I wish to feel at home again.

She is my home,
But she is not where home is.
When will home wander to me?

We’ll set the breadth aflame
And expose what lies in the ashes between us.
Dancing,
Until our flesh turns white.

When I saw you in the gloaming
sat beneath old Herod's tree
The heralds made you think of one
so unalike from me
Weren't you a fawn who with them bore
O' such a troubled breast
That when you sat beside yourself
found there no form of rest.

And was it I that saw you there
Or was it someone close?
Is't good to question weary eyes
with sweet nepenthe's dose?
O' agèd doe, Ignore me so
to temper thine own soul
O' springtime eddies eb and flow
Cosset the wintered vole.