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Performance Poets Association® |
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THE VERB
She lay on her side like a noun, flat and inattentive barely descriptive as a pond that doesn’t stir in the summer heat. She was divided by her thoughts wondering if the wick of passion would be lit. Listlessness infiltrated her beyond her years and then the rains came and the river swelled. Syntax was thrown into the wind. A verb arrived waking her, moving her out from unconsciousness. Upright and forceful she was obliged to write her name. A cry of action protruded from her throat and her veins wept and she pressed her flesh against delusion and once again began to dance.
Barbara J. Spinelli Masters in Organizational Development, published chapbook, PPA co-founder |
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Last Leaf
Encouraged by winter’s impending sleep the cold plays hide and seek Graying sky beckons night movement slackens Questions hung suspended in the thickening air The challenge comes wrapped in a persistent breeze A single slice of brown hardened veins defined suddenly releases its grip on yesterday delivery itself to the present tense of integration and rebirth Silent mistaken for loss this stubborn, resilient, brilliant life stage falls before me weakening my preoccupation reminding me of death’s promise a window to eternity I breathe deeply and move on But a bit more slowly watching leaf surrender to nature’s call.
Barbara J. Spinelli
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December Rose
The leaves have fallen a sea of amber and russet cover the ground the earth obscured by nature’s feast I gather these leaves these fallen gifts into my arms immersed in the scent and sound of their abundance I am surprised by my discovery my heart leaps have my eyes deceived me a magnificent rosebud standing proudly the persistent one not deterred by cooling winds or gray shadows a reminder of something greater beyond reason beyond expectation love in a simple form I take her indoors and watch her unfold slowly joyously smiling as she comes into her own.
Barbara J. Spinelli |
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California Grandmother
The taste of your California on my mouth cup up - handed out lush lemon from your tree, and deep brown coffee in a sauce pan, eggshells float on the brew. A loom stands with half-finished work; while you indulge me, feed me, bring me café con leche in bed. I drink so much of it I cannot sleep. Instead, I lie awake listening to you snore, bathed in the light of your San Jose moon.
Susannah W, Simpson World traveler, founding member of “Poets for Peace, Long Island Chapter” |
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GARDEN OF ASHES
Where does it all go The anger, the disappointment The fear I remove it from the sanctuary The muscles, the tissues The bones Through my pen I bleed on to The page Purging my insults Fearlessly Surgically Wholly I torch the words Just as I have been taught And send the smoke To the Divine Exorcism Fertilizing the expectant Flowers and herbs From that Pillar of hate Grows Love Empty I look towards the sun And smile On a new day.
Barbara J. Spinelli |
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