Echoes in Time A Collection of Poetic Works

Peacock Feathers The peacock struts and spreads out its plumes—peacock blue, peacock green, and all the shades in between trimmed in peacock gold. They dance and sway, a train filled with shimmering peacockish ore. And I wonder, how many stand superfluous like words in a poem not yet perfected? A feather unlooses and floats lightly in air as I omit an adjective and replace a hyphen with a period. A second feather drops and articles fall. Gazing into eyes atop the plumage, I’m assured the balance of beauty remains. Haiku Moments blank computer screen staring at me with wonder ideas forthcoming? five syllables. then seven and five, a haiku entering the world haiku with sixteen, not quite right, is still clever, and fun to write creating haiku thought-provoking, a blast of natural rhythm a perfect poem illusory, out of reach, a perfect mirage Minimalist Musings I’m a word artist painting nature’s beauty with a poet’s brush thoughts gently flow sentences convalesce— a book is born crafting poetry nurses your soul— revising heals it a pencil, half-chewed pages crumpled and torn— remnants of a story not yet told exiled from words I remain homeless with an inkless pen countless poems are born and die in fitful nights of sleep you drinking espresso at the dinner table— evening inspiration a poem floated into my front yard on the feather of an angel’s wing Reading a fine poem is like drinking a strong cup of coffee— Good to the last drop (Written by Joseph Larizza) lost somewhere within the confines of these pages singular verses of metrical rhythm crafted long before they touched the world The First Draft It was written in October and pondered often like peeling bark and dying leaves tossed from shading trees by playful dryads chasing a metaphor while clinging to the season of the first draft. Everywhere A poem hides in the branches of a tree. Another is concealed in the sea’s waves. From behind the clouds, yet one more begins to emerge. There is a poem on the subway platform, and one touches a seated woman mothering her child. A flag waves a verse into the wind atop a skyscraper across the square where pigeons peck at the soft center of day-old bread. A fire engine whistles, startling geese that squawk and flail their wings while circling a stanza. At home, I find a poem drinking you in at the kitchen table where you drink coffee. Flooded with images, I reach for a pen, hoping to capture their flow in the warmth of your eyes, where gently, one more poem appears. Finding Poetry Breathing in similes, as peaceful as country air, silken metaphors touch my heart. Traveling by train through melodic verse, fated to find my way home. Sweet Entries Revealed Sitting at the vanity, studying my face in the mirror, a perfume flask spins and tips, emptying its scent and filling the table much like I fill my journal, with words and thoughts endlessly flowing and sentences running on. An outpouring of emotion. Passions perfumed with Obsession. A Poem Chosen How does a simple poem distinguish itself from the rest, and find its way into the world? Like this one. It’s not very lyrical, there’s no great epiphany. It just sits, printed on the page, next to the one, that leaves you speechless. Waiting for Erato Where has the muse that I use to inspire me gone on this snowy winter day? There is movement outside—everywhere. Children are playing. People are scurrying here and there. The scene, a concatenation of beauty. I sit poised. Watching. . . waiting. Intent on writing. Although I stare out, I’m blank inside, much like the paper I hold. I think I can write. I’m ready to write. . . But nothing emerges. Ceramics Class clay spins wet words on the potter’s wheel thumbs slowly squeeze the thick spattering mud pressure thins its center, pinching its syllables dry verses parse and harden, shaping a poem out of clay Ode to My Creative Corner Just inside the entrance foyer, At a station made of pine, Sits my computer and my printer. This ode’s to you, workplace divine! Walls of ivory, sporting photos, A window looking o’er the bay. Books and papers strewn all over. A clock to tell the time of day. Separate from the rooms around me, You surround me with reflection. Creativity encroaching, about to astound me. O locale, you’re sheer perfection! Wite-Out! With determined force, I unscrew the cap. The bottle clearly printed in black and white. The brush slathered with the smell of formaldehyde— Caustic, irritating odor, will rub out what ought Not be, offering change, promises to patch things Now and forever, before the irreparable stains. Carefully I slide the goo atop the side, Wiping away excesses, guarding words Almost uttered, not said nor set. Persistent, Bold strokes cover mistakes completely, Changing the future’s past forever. Encountering a Graffitist Driving on a desolate street At twilight, I see a shadow Boxing the side Of a pale brick building. A moving silhouette of a warrior, Periodically dodging from view. He’s armed with flamboyant pigments— Blood red, neon blue, And the quintessential coal. I pull over to watch him sketch. Squiggly lines and bold marks Spatter his canvas With the meaning of life. He’s diagramming his immortality— Like a complex sentence— With the spray from cans of paint. Ring, Ring, Ring. . . She sat comfortably in a lotus position reading poetry on the sofa and was startled by the phone. She looked at it as it rang incessantly. She knew it was you, and she just couldn’t answer. The poems panicked. Their meter skipped a beat. Verses lost their lyricism. Words deafened in silence. The blooming buds in the vase on the table screamed and wilted before her. Her embryo curled into a fetal position and died. It couldn’t have been any other way. The persistent calls demanded too much.