MORNING GLORY (By Joseph Cavera) Ever since she raised her hand And let her voice be known We’ve all been bowed to understand The altruism she has shown Now in the days she woke too soon, And in the nights too late, But in the morns I could never relate How she’d make us swoon And on […]
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Malnourished mild noon-time breeze, the sunrise clang the bells for ideal men to get to work. (shrug the dust off your shoulders) a poet embraces time by carefully walking a mile. thoughts of her rush in again.. like photography, your image is embroidered on my mind, every junction and corner reminds me of your skinless flesh; a cellophane on dried […]
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It was an ancient city. All the young people left as soon as they could but the old remained in their mortgaged huts surrounded by evergreens that offered a haven for cardinals and jays, robins and finches. No matter the season birds flew from tree limbs to feed on seed and suet put out by too many widows […]
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Bob’s Terminal Bay Wracked by cancer, Bob Marley told his friend, “It’s not me, Camille.” No, it’s never me when self-determination’s at an end. For, navigating pain, you cannot see but knots ahead. And you’re preoccupied with hoisting sails against prevailing winds. Bravado in your weary crew has died. A glance into the water shows the fins of sharks […]
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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 to confide hazy screams and dreamy clouds Sometimes we create our own destruction the fabrications we devise […]
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They’re usually poor people, sometimes considered the flotsam of society, always in the way at the grocery store, at the post office. They can’t find their money, if they have any. They’re never in a hurry. They have nowhere to go and you’re always in line behind them, a busy man with people to see, appointments to keep, deadlines to meet. You try to […]
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“Don’t ever think the poetry is dead in an old man because his forehead is wrinkled, or that his manhood has left him when his hand trembles! If they ever were there, they are there still.” – Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
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I am guilty of skipping chapters stained with shadows Missing moments not composed I feel unworthy of your tales untold, reserved for me, while dust sleeps upon the page There […]
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Night Song silence sings a silent song silently, this monody from the diaphragm of mockingbirds, breaking every wondering In her synchronized tune; a wail here, a brawl there, then a chirp. birds whistle, -at night, birds sing, so does mother. she tunes a wail for each new burden, she never opted for this. papa, you lied. true lovers don’t die […]
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