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I amI am from San Diego.
Ever is the full white eye keenly fixed below
I figure it never found its muse
Or can never get enough.
Perhaps it alone is concerned, in the end,
And searches still for spirited,
I eavesdrop often on the wide, arching palm fronds that rustle
And murmur to rooftops of red Spanish tile,
Which, overlapping, lay silently, working on their tans.
White diamonds glitter on the surface of the bay
Rippled by wind and wake
And as in a cosmic sea,
This school of stars dance and leap
Beside one another, weaving above the nebulous infinity below,
Winking up at their mother
I came from Gasparina, Calabria,
Over a hundred years ago,
Though I’ve never been to Italy
and I can’t speak Italian.
Still, Italy is in the blood that surges
Blindly with passion and despair
in and out of my heart.
I am dedicated to art and poetry and to
The beauty of this world.
Beauty- a word so subjective
It could mean anything at all.
I believe in ma
Is made for nothing in particular
For mint juleps,
For plows tucked away,
Sleeping in the barn
Hung up on the wall.
Today is made
For raucous youth
Whenever inclination strikes.
And as the day dons its timeless robes
Of peaceful quietude
As the warm dirt road is daubed with shadows
Of fence-posts and trees
The heat and vigor of day concedes
The attention of an audience
To the whispering crickets and sighing grasses
Today is made for filtering
The consuming, tabulating nature of labor and industry
For closed eyes and drifting thoughts
For giving us back to ourselves.
The sweet warm air wafting down
From the pastures and golden hills
Is why I brought them with me.
No WordsNo words
Or be heard.
My heart is drowning,
From holding its breath,
Such precious, precious breath,
Longer, and yet longer
Where there is no love
Sweet, sweet love.
Longer, and yet longer
With that hard and innocent
Mouth that gapes and gasps,
With wild desperation,
From those bulging, flashing eyes
When the fish can jerk no more
Upon the hot and crumbling Earth.
Until it had grown,
Oh yes, poor, pure heart,
Bloated with the aching, biting pangs of loneliness
Echoing against itself through arteries and veins
Like those starving, sponsorless children in Africa,
Who had eaten too much nothing.
Most peculiar man,
Who, lost within himself,
Dreamed he found himself,
When Anne Sexton drawled her beautiful burdened musings
Across his mind,
Counting eleven orbs hanging beside the moon
That starry, starry night.
Didn't Want to GoLast night I dreamed
That I was home,
That I was leaving
For a place I didn't want to go
That I told you
We went to Brazil and Hawaii,
where I've always wanted to go
That the water at the beach there was turquoise and warm,
And that nobody was afraid of speedos.
As we whizzed by, I captured every moment
On video with my phone.
They never let me leave with anything but the memory,
Though I always try.
You told me that the ocean is dark
Where the owls float at night.
I dreamed at last
That I was still home
That I got to say good-night to Mazie and Daisy
And gently ruffle their feathers
Before I had to leave
For a place I didn't want to go.
Anisette DancesI get up from my couch
From my writing
My wishing and waiting
Climbing up and up through my life
Up tangled trails
But lost time.
“The kitchen!” I hear, catching the echo from somewhere in my head
Long after it was said,
And like a ghost, I’m already there, without anyone knowing, almost, even, myself.
The carpet dares not venture to cover the linoleum; too many stories have been whispered lowly
By the kitchen light
And the toaster
Of why there is not any carpet there
It is quiet, except for the distant echo of the drip-dripping from the roof
Into a recently empty bucket,
Who has resumed complaining that it still rained less than he would have liked.
I find my hands on the kitchen counter near where I keep
The remnants of a world past,
Those who could pass familiar words with me, those little things that only we would know.
Leroux Anisette and Romana Sambuca.
They were there, too, but
No one’s really the same anymore.
Now we’re all
I Hate When People Get OldI hate when people get old
And wear more expensive things
Fancy clothes that they hope will make up for what's underneath
Clothes that hang off them like so many treasured memories
That no longer match the outside.
Clothes that, in their newness, with vivid colors and smooth, crisp edges
Seem to complain, to resist and reject all the while,
As though to insist that this person no longer belongs.
When gold and jewels drip, and pull at the neck and ears, perched upon
Narrowed fingers and wrists, seem as if they could fall right through, on the word, waiting,
As if they could sense that they won't be there much longer, anyway.
How I wish that I could change their minds, and tell them that they're wrong,
And lift it all back up where it should be.
But, they always slip through anyway.
And all you're left with
Are beautiful memories to wrap around yourself and keep you company until the fire burns out.
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More