Time for lOVE
Lingering and listening,
nervously standing in
the chill and dark drizzle —
overlooking what remained
of her child,
broken and gone forever,
lying on a starry blanket
of glistening black asphalt —
she lowered her head,
sniffing the still body —
then one final glance,
before swiftly
bounding into the wet wood —
as if comprehending
life’s sometimes severe and arbitrary
allotment of time
upon our love.
Author’s Note:
Several readers (including my daughters) found this poem to be profoundly sad. This was not my intent. The poem is a reminder to all, including myself, to be keenly aware of postponing or delaying any expressions of love and affection, which opportunities may be lost forever in this crazy world we inhabit.
This writing was initially published in, ”STORIES THAT NEED TO BE TOLD 2021” A TulipTree Anthology.
A Tragic Travail
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
— Bob Dylan
The ocean was you. I remember it when —
silver was our vista. The time was then.
Sand exposed our footprints; it was just you and I,
father and daughter, beneath an argentine sky.
The bliss of a child, the parent as well —
the shadow approaching, we couldn’t foretell.
Today is now here — holding my breath —
leaning to kiss you — in your face I see death.
Quitting the page — closing the book —
who am I fooling? In the mirror I look.
Swallow our guilt — suffer no blame —
no judgement to render upon addiction untamed.
An improbable hope, a dubious wish —
unchaining yourself, and me, with your kiss.
Holding your daughters, cloaked in amiss —
an unspoken lesson: Life’s companion is risk.
They possess their tomorrows with promise anew, and
your unfulfilled wish: their dreams to come true.
Many to love them — but none to replace
you, ever present, beheld in each face.
Time through my fingers, like water from a jar —
contain it I couldn’t, looking back from afar.
Life’s purpose I ponder — an alibi for the now and here?
Tomorrow’s enigma — I miss you my dear.
Author’s Note:
This poem explores my love and anguish surrounding my relationships with my heroin addicted daughter and her two daughters (my granddaughters). This poem was initially published in print by “SAMSARA MAGAZINE” Issue #22, SPRING 2020.
Bestowed With A Name
JOEY, JOEY, JOEYEEEEEE!
Eventually, a trifling evolution to JOE.
White to beige, accompanied
with the fanfare of weed growth.
JOSEPH! A father’s rebuke.
GIUSEPPE! The eternal welcome of my Italian grandparents.
A plebeian name at best, I was
left naked, with no incipient distinctness.
A lifetime later, and now, myself
a grandfather, sitting at my hearthstone.
Sifting through family relics, when
an ancient childish concern returned home.
The photographs, yellowed and twisted;
his downed bomber under a smoke-covered dismal sky.
The plane partly submerged under
the black scorched earth of Iwo Jima.
Holding in my hands his posthumously awarded
purple heart, earned before my birth.
A twenty-something war hero, my
mother’s older brother, my uncle JOE.
Bestowed with a name.
A gift of hidden meaning?
A portent of fame?
A golden wing for flying?
Or just an arrow to aim?
An arrow to aim.
Author’s Note:
This poem was inspired by the short heroic life and times of my mother’s older brother, Joseph Bottalico, a B25 bomber pilot who was killed on Iwo Jima during World War II. He was also my namesake, as the poem details, much to my youthful chagrin. This poem was nominated for a 2019 Pushcart Prize by virtue of its Honorable Mention in the Arizona Authors’ Association 2018 International Literary Contest and was first published in the 2019 Arizona literary Magazine.
BEYOND
Ageing amasses awakenings,
like the mighty oak
garners its rings.
But enlightenment
seems a more
suitable sentiment.
Does an aged state, without more,
spark pathos, or cease
scattering seeds of hate?
Should sharing life’s mandatory,
and universal quietus,
coalesce us?
Our planetary pillars, of both law
and medicine, define death
as the brain — silenced.
Yet, the heart, like poetry,
may continue to beat —
beyond our galactic boundary.
Author’s Note:
Carl Sagan once stated that: “Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.” I like to think and hope mankind itself is capable of recognizing that “incredible something.” This poem explores such a hope.
This writing was initially published in “The Poeming Pigeon, A Literary Journal of Poetry,” in its 2020 Cosmos Anthology.
ONE MAN'S CASTLE
Finally —
home from Hades,
collapsed at the kitchen counter,
a beer can raised to my face,
cover against the severe scowl
of my youngest daughter
who was frantically fishing the garbage bin,
searching for my discarded plastic carrier,
savagely slicing each roundel in half,
returning its castrated remains to the trash.
That crap kills innocent animals, you know!
After offering our dog an exaggerated greeting,
I attempted a humble escape.
You can’t speak to mom like that.
Like what? I snapped? Like that!
My eldest daughter’s eyes slowly ascended,
seemingly searching for the source of my stupidity.
In the meanwhile, my
heroin enchained middle daughter
chronicled all
I yearned to hear,
regardless of its falsity.
But it felt like freedom —
tasted so sweet —
in those dark and sour hours.
My only son soon joined me —
Both of us relieved to agree upon
the significance of sports,
the import of empathy,
the temerity of Trump, and
our mutual forbearance of the other’s foibles.
Good fortune over fame, my
wondrous wife of a million miles,
my fierce and contrasting offspring — they are
my ramparts and parapets against the arrows of the night.
Author’s Note:
Although I suspect that most of us look at the end of our calendar year (December) as a division line in our lives regarding a review of the past and the start of a new year, as the father of four, I always looked at the end of the school year (August) as a time to reflect, with September as a new start. This month’s writing choice, “One Man’s Castle,” was written in this fashion.
Those of you who know me are well-aware one of my daughters has been a heroin addict for years and some of my past writing reflects that fact. My wife and I are not special in any way and deserve no exemption from life’s challenges. This month’s poem briefly mentions the existence of this hurdle; but for those who want to know more, I refer you to the following site which includes our harrowing experience and horrific pain in living such a nightmare:
Courier Post - COMMENTARY: ‘Tough love’ is a painful choice
“One Man’s Castle” was initially published in the January 2021 edition of cc&d magazine, titled “You Won’t See Me,” vol.305.
we once wore the white and black
Drained and depleted, bending over
gloved hands gripping knees —
resolute faces behind caged helmets
covered in mud and sweat.
Breathing deeply through
clenched and guarded teeth,
our time was now —
It had come to this.
No coaches allowed on the field,
but our hearts were enough.
We didn’t need words —
only each other.
The air was dead-still,
the crowd, hushed and distant, as
we felt the weight of family and fans —
waiting.
The whistle finally blew.
Clapping our hands in unison,
turning together to face our foe —
we broke our huddle.
Five decades later —
old men shaking hands, smiling, remembering —
moonlight softening the evidence of time —
an evening breeze carrying away our years.
Author’s Note:
In last month’s poetry choice, “A Taste of Dusk,” I drew inspiration from my 50th year (1966) high school’s class reunion. At that time, I promised I would share with you in an upcoming selection a poem also inspired by my class reunion. Well, why wait? We are still in graduation mode, so I thought I would share it now.
While growing up I played all the major sports until I entered high school when I decided to focus on football. I still swam competitively (like a stone) on a summer team, but I was just trying to stay in shape for football in the fall. Watching the faces of my teammates at the reunion, my mind kept superimposing the shadows of their helmet face guards. Hence, this poem was birthed.
There were times during our youth when we experienced the failure to reach our goals. Painful? Yes. However, we later learned how the perspective of time through the passing of many years could serve to open our eyes to the now realized attainment of more important and lasting goals. I hope this poem illustrates that principle.
This poem was initially published in “The Poeming Pigeon, A Literary Journal of Poetry,” in its 2019 Sports Anthology.
A TASTE OF DUSK
It was the early 1960’s when high school was everything
It should have been, and all that it shouldn’t.
Drinking and driving was not only the norm, it was
weekend routine, along with partying and fighting, if needed.
We fantasized finding a Mrs. Robinson, while reality
found us experiencing uncertainty with women our own age.
Forecasted by brittle branches and gray leaves, the inevitable illnesses and
deaths took seats at our 50th reunion; perennials until we weren’t.
Dick was too ill to attend, so we gathered in his hospital room and
retold tall tales until his comedic spirit forced him to smile.
The last time we saw him alive was at his daughter’s home; we
stood like silent tombstones — surrounding his bed.
He felt like shit and was cranky as hell; so one by one,
we wandered off like tumbleweeds — collecting at the kitchen table.
But in short time, he appeared in his wheelchair —
rolled out by Angie, his high school sweetheart and angelic wife of many years.
She gently parked him next to me. I instinctively reached
under the table and privately held his hand.
He looked at me with calm astonishment — both of us a bit bewildered.
But I like to think it was just what he needed.
I know it worked for me.
Author’s Note:
For many of us, June of our senior years in high school remain the most significant month for vivid graduation memories no matter the number of educational degrees we may have later acquired. At least it is for me. I graduated high school in June of 1966 and we celebrated our one and only (as of this writing) high school reunion in 2016, our 50th. That evening inspired this poem as well one I will share with you in an upcoming selection in several months.
This poem was initially published in the January 2021 edition of cc&d magazine, titled “You Won’t See Me,” vol. 305. I surprised the “Angie” of this poem with a copy after its publication and received a thank-you note more beautifully written by her than anything I could ever hope to produce.
Arranged love
Bit and harness chaffing,
always a capricious climb —
Strength sometimes failing,
seldom steps of sweet rhyme.
He to her left —
She to his right —
Calmly coaxing
him and his might.
They knew each other well —
But it wasn’t sonnets
nor lust
for which they fell.
When he picked up a stone,
their rhythm fell askew —
She took the extra weight,
until remaining steps were few.
A life of travail,
then one night came the shot —
His loss unrealized, until
morning brought her not.
They paired him with another.
She was impatient to start.
It was lighter on the load —
but heavier on the heart.
Author’s Note:
This poem was influenced by the lengthy marriage of my maternal grandparents, with their relationship commencing with their respective needs and desires of their families and friends. My grandfather, who was from Sicily, had first come to America alone, planning to have his then wife and their three children join him after he got situated. She passed away shortly after he left and his new wife (who became my grandmother), who was from Naples, took him and his children on. If that doesn’t sound romantic, it’s because it wasn’t. The family never called it an arranged marriage, but it was sure close. My grandmother’s love for his existing three children coupled with his sense of fatherly obligation led to their life-long marriage including four additional children with many wonderful and colorful relatives and our experiences to follow.
This poem is a tribute to them and their relationship and their gift to all of us as being the best grandparents in every sense of the word. My grandmother passed away in 1995 at the age of 96, and my grandfather passed away in 1983 at the age of 90. They are still with me every day.
This poem first appeared in, “STORIES THAT NEED TO BE TOLD, A TULIPTREE ANTHOLOGY 2019” published and printed by Tulip Tree Publishing, LLC.
STRANGERS
I was 12 years old and heading home from football practice with my father in his station wagon. It was 1960, and the name of his business was printed on his car door: “STEIN-RIDGWAY HOMEBUILDERS, INC.” A driver signaled to my father from the adjacent lane, and both of them slowed and pulled over. The other driver, a Black man, got out and walked back to our car. He asked my father if he owned the home-building company, and my father said that he did. They spoke for a few minutes, and then the man got back in his car and followed us to a housing development my father’s company was building.
When we arrived, my father got out of his car and talked to the man. I remember them laughing together. They shook hands, and my father showed him a model home. About ten minutes later my father returned to our car chuckling to himself.
I asked what was so funny and he said that the man, had been surprised when my father had actually led him to the housing development; he’d expected my father would drive a hundred miles per hour to lose him.
I told my father I didn’t understand. “Was it because he was a stranger?” “No son,” my father said. “He is no stranger. He’s just a man looking for a good neighborhood to live in and raise his children.”
Author’s Note:
My favorite magazine, “The Sun,” includes a monthly feature titled “READERS WRITE,” which asks its readers to address a variety of different monthly topics with the requirement for publication that the submission be nonfiction. The magazine gives broad room for expression and the readers’ submissions are fascinating in their diversity of interpretation as well as presenting valuable slices of life which may otherwise be left unshared. My above submission, as edited by the magazine for space limitations, was published in the magazine’s September, 2020. (Issue #537)
under the topic: “STRANGERS.”
love's sequence
Approaching my quietus
considering the consequences of time
the incessant compression of the years; while
contemplating our long — ago rhyme.
Envisioning you in sunlight; No!
not with my eyes, but seen
secretly, by means of my soul.
More moon than sun — soft and serene.
Imagining you at dusk
diaphanous in the gloaming;
ere the Darkness deprived us / of us / of our
sameness / and you — of your days.
Remembering you, each day, lovingly.
Until my final tomorrow
when I also become a memory
of someone who once loved me.
Author’s Note:
This poem was written in 2015 and was not only inspired by my advancing age, but by memories of family and friends who had passed during the preceding years. Additionally, my thoughts of the 500,000 plus lives lost in America due to the Covid 19 virus from last March to this March brought me back to this poem and its message of lasting love, which the Ides of March can never defeat. This reprinting is made in the honor of all the victims and their loving survivors’ memories of them.
This poem was nominated for a 2017 Pushcart Prize by virtue of its second place finish in the Arizona Authors’ Association 2016 International Literary Contest and was published in the 2017 Arizona Literary Magazine.
HOME
Outside on a bench,
head tilted back,
legs extended,
searching the late-winter sky, and
the words to describe it.
Brilliant white clouds
as close as your pillow —
shredded cotton, each puff monozygotic,
yet different; motionless —
thinly spread upon a pale blue backdrop,
the color of an erstwhile lover’s eyes.
The Northeastern sky is personal
more intimate than the wide-open and
vast expanse of the Southwestern vista, which
I find too extravagant and disconnected—my
absence unnoticed, when
making my final passage.
The Northeastern sky is here and now —
focused, assiduous, even dangerous.
Looking up into a falling snowstorm —
white flakes lightening the black sky,
the sharing of light and dark —
mimicking the natural composite of the world.
The ocean off the Northeastern coast —
dark, gray, gritty, foreboding;
white-caps escorting the waves
to conquer and vanquish
the waiting sand castles, and
reduce the sea-shells
to glittering works of art,
worthy of examination.
Eventually, the cold wind pushes me home —
to my fire
to my books
to my writing paper,
pencils resting at the ready —
in the event lightning strikes.
The percolating warmth of the fire
mends me —
unlike retreating from the heat
of the Southwestern sun, to
seek the contrived coolness
of an air-conditioned space.
How could I ever leave the rhythm and rhyme
divulged and imbued by the seasons themselves?
Author’s Note:
My writing of this poem was initially prompted by watching my friends finally retire and leave New Jersey for the steady warmth and sun of Southwest locations. Although understanding their desires, and beyond family considerations, I just could not do it. So, I wrote this poem hoping to fully understand why.
This poem was nominated for a 2018 Pushcart Prize by virtue of its second place finish in the Arizona Authors’ Association 2017 International Literary Contest and was published in the 2018 Arizona Literary Magazine.