Poetry

ROARING SUN (By Joseph Cavera) Endless are the days that begin again my tredging and dredging across the plains within planes through the tall grass and beyond green scenes and misty screens front the path to the distant shores Held ...

Daily Paper on the Lawn   An hour before dawn the paper is out on the lawn white in the moonlight a trumpet dozing after a long night in a jazz bar tired from playing but willing to play a last set for me not knowing ...

To The One Who Desires To Be Me what life is left in me to be desired? me, the wayward wing of a brawny bluebird that lost its grip on the tiptop of a fruit tree fell flat on the ...

Processes Grammar of grief wraps itself around the tremors of time and chips: organize blue pencillers. This will obliterate your errors. Better still, equip yourself and be your own editor ...

MY WORDS - By Elaine Nadal Inadequate fragments embedded with Ay, No puede ser, Sí se puede, Pura vida lacking punctuation misunderstood tirelessly running on and on syncopating along the way Lo tengo to’ pensao Pues a veces sometimes spontaneous ...

EKPHRASIS, EKPHRASIS (By Joseph Cavera) Soon I’ll See Another Red Hand, Pulling Known Entities Nearer And Nearer, Even Kings Pray “Halt” ‘Round Sinister Inhuman Slaughter… ...

City's so dark along the edge and cutthroat down the middle. There's a police presence. They're looking for identity cards. But I'm an artist. Can I show them my vermilion instead? It's raining a tarnished silver. Sirens make a show ...

You are a gap in my room, a missing tooth my roving tongue of a mind keeps returning to. You are a voice missing from the house, the quieted flutter of your presence a flat-line through these rooms. You are ...

IN THE BRUSH (By Joseph Cavera) In to out is unearthed and free description, encryption form friction as fiction is subdivided into purest Soliloquy Silver screens form the veil that shrouds as memories and processes slowly deride senses that tried ...

Lead Us Not Into Never mind young beauties on campus, glimpses of skin on obscene screens, the centripetal force of super-fiction -- my siren beckons with perfect diction from its nook on the refrigerator door. Drop the tablespoon I self-command ...