Tranquility
in my
pocket
whiteness
without
the guilt
A bitter
taste that
contradicts
the bitterness
of the past
It lasts long
enough to
make it stop
For once
the clock
is my friend
Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon.
That when the bomb inside of me was set. At any time it may go off, And then at that moment, I would commit my suicide. It’s been ticking for years, It started in 1964, Inside my mind is the bomb from 64. Will someone defuse it? Can it be defused? Time is running out for me.
Tick, Tick, Tick.
*****
Star Night Star Bright
Shooting stars shooting past me,
Shooting guns shooting at me,
Shooting stars shooting past shooting guns,
A soul shooting past shooting stars,
And that’s how she sees the East: The blue hunger where a child fell asleep, A theatre actor drank himself to stupor, maybe death, A teacher misplaced his tablet, mobile and life, A silent man gazed at her through fear and rioting cells - Water, mist, who cares, it happened When she was waiting for light to get a move on And jet her branches, for days to disperse In white hunger or nipped desire - Do come in, please take a seat, Shift branches from the table, Shift fractious lights, I know, it’s the prophet’s fire, Don’t ask ‘Souls get lost in blue, is it fair’, Don’t ask ‘Are mothers risk or Lethe When averse limbs and snowy manes invade’ - Demise, the wind won’t listen if you run Through white pages, through life tearing apart Words, grass - Even the moon halts in a truce wonkier than sunrise, Green hunger where women sport Sharp features or white doughy jowls : Do they look like vipers or pancakes? Whatever - Each sunset deserves a long wild wake.
I said ‘Go, naked soul’
To the night silence fading in blue
Where hunger led her and her likes:
To crave a Cyclops, a freak,
To surprise chimera parties, over there
You can see words, the freaked pedestrians
Opposite traffic lights: waste, loss, demise,
Or dawdlers lost in a maze, the only signs being
Babies ravaging mothers or teats,
Butterflies asking spent flowers for more -
So, did you find them in a junk shop?
Nice, ok, but what are they for,
Look, it wasn’t that bad when I was a child
And stared at them for a long while,
Their eyes swamps of blue tenderness
As they said their name, life or demise?
Whatever, handle with care,
Such bloody high maintenance!
And you don’t fret, soul, if your eyes
Scare the beejeesus out of them,
Stay here and let Cassandra hide -
I know, wasn’t he lucky with such friends
Who tied him up to the mast
While the song went unfazed -
Mind, we are not, too much time on their hands
Those three guys or that light
Doesn’t call it quits, who knows,
More power to her, we’ll make do
With a merry parade of bright-coloured
Bedding and words -
Things changed for worse? Maybe,
But colours we’ve got and a vagrant light:
Enough for a shelter? I dunno -
Oh, so sorry, dear soul.
That sticky love of mothers? Thanks but no thanks, Time kindles himself through his offspring, No one knows his father - A bastard, but stick to him And you’ll dash to death like a child To windswept spring grass - Flowers and butterflies, hopes? No, lest she go wild, Ban out the silence, At best cast some embers - Blessed abundance went missing at last - To think you saw the harshness of flowers As a force, to think you arranged rituals For the goddess of harvest - Look at you now, helpless in a maze Of pomegranates and misleading oaths - Who’s to blame, blue or demise? Nonsense, blue came to help, Stones didn’t sneak off And where’s the point in music, cider, Sweet gifts from your friends - She falls asleep out of the blue: End of books, end of packed rooms As the tangled veins show you Her true gift - Deep silence at night When colours sell themselves cheap, Yet stars insist on a sky blank of zest And blue light says “to every night its moon”, Yes, yes, but get you fruitful, fear, Dig graves, dig words, Forget wintry souls: Even fire skips them when diving Through roads, squares, signs - You’ve given enough - Stop it now.
Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella fell in love with the English language at six, soon after she had started writing poems (in Italian). She has contributed to a number of national and international magazines and anthologies, and is the author of Lo sguardo di Orfeo, L’inverno di vetro, Di altre stelle polari , Casa di erba’, and in English, A Blue Soul and Blue Branches.
My name is not
the hollow where I ran, brushing
past leaves, leaping away
from hornet nests, collecting
thick husks and seed pods
My name is not
the echo of a gunshot
across observing mountains,
or the cut of a trail through
thick undergrowth, looking
for wild signs
All of these elements
comprise my story, compose
my mind, but none of them
name me completely.
Dementia
Restless, she roamed
the streets and night, crooning
about ex-lovers, holding
on to fragments of memory,
half-remembered faces, names
that no longer held meaning,
floating like party favors
drawing her back down to earth
with the promise of a history
Little Woonsocket, little Woonsocket, you’re still figuratively bigger
than a Pomeranian or an Indigo Bunting,
and plumbers here a century back moved out
on horse-drawn carts and carried decent rubber plungers
underneath their hairy arms, and they sported rubber boots
that many-a-time father made to double
as waders come Rhode Island’s snarking trout season.
Little Woonsocket, little Woonsocket, I screamed into town this morning
as two rippling, chunky women were doing boom-box calisthenics
at the end of the open road, up against the city’s lesser gates,
and the only thing I had in my car to barter oral pleasure
was a one-third empty jeroboam of Carlo Rossi red,
though as shit and sweet fortune would have it,
that was more than enough to spear the black girl’s thong
for later framing and ridiculous mounting
as high as I can reach up walls in daddy’s fireplace-d den.
