WINTER’S COLD

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The wind still blows

yet not so bold

as yesterday’s blast of cold.

As cold as your eyes

and as remote the skies

which steal my breath,

gasping for any touch of warmth.

Forcing me to remove my mask.

I wish you could remove your mask.

Not the one which protects you

from Covid, flu, and RSV.

The one which protects you from me.

The mask which blocks the kiss

of mingled breath and souls

connected in our private safe place.

The sun will some day warm the earth,

her touch allowing flowers to bloom.

Your touch could make me bloom,

if you could warm to me.

Come in from the cold, my love.

Remove your mask of invulnerability

and embrace love’s possibility.

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PASSION

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Where does passion go?

Why does it flee before it is spent?

Has it no sense of time, nor pace?

What does one do with a heart rent

by passion’s too swift flow?

How empty is a life bereft of passion.

How lonely is a passionless soul.

Time stands still and lingers in empty space

covered in ash from burned-out coal.

The need to re-light passion is out of fashion.

Where does passion go?

I, certainly, do not know.

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COLD BREW

Photo by Aphiwat chuangchoem on Pexels.com

I understand the pleasure of cold brew, now.

The stainless steel bowl 

of coffee grounds steeping in filtered cold water

calms my soul.

I brew a drink which sends distaste reeling

having placed my anger amid the grounds.

All harsh thoughts and bitter feelings

now steep for two days

washing all bitterness away.

I finally drink the gentled drink.

The wait has given me time to think.

I understand cold brew better, now.

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PUBLISH OR PERISH

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON

Each morning, I awaken and write before my mind loses its irrationality and becomes reasonable, blocking out all creativity with the fear of not being perfect. I also face each new morning dreading what I will hear about Ukraine and its people. Recently, my niece has been pushing me to organize the stacks of poetry on the kitchen table and publish a book. She nags so well that I eventually agreed. Having no interest in, nor understanding of, how to format and upload a book I began exploring but was not self-motivated enough to accomplish much until I realized I could maybe help Ukrainians by publishing a book of poetry about the ongoing war with Russia. The photo above is of the book I recently published titled SLAVA UKRAINI, Poems forPeace. It is available for purchase on Amazon at $14.99. All profits from the sale of the book will go to World Food Kitchen Ukrainian effort.

My father and his 3 brothers operated a restaurant called The Center Cafe for 38 years. Returning home to small town Ohio after WWII, they realized no one would hire Italian immigrant men. So, like all immigrants and their children before them and after, they started their own business. Like any Italian worthy of the title they started a food business. The first and last thing visitors to our home had to do was “sit and eat.” So, I chose World Food Kitchen as the donee because I understand the healing power of food served with love and compassion.

I am now determined to improve my publishing skills and make more books. My niece is happy. And I hope I am able to help Ukrainians in my own small way. I hope it means fewer Ukrainians will perish under Russian onslaught. I encourage you to help Ukraine in whichever way you choose to do so. Slava Ukraini !

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HOMELESS WOMEN

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untitled women 

work the fields

ply the streets

rock the cradles

cry and weep

unnamed tears

forgotten smiles

un-styled hair

weary feet

arms akimbo

grace denied

homeless

but not heartless,

mores the pity,

where none resides

beside the curb

where hope dies

as titled women

simply pass by

and by

and by

and by

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GUARDIAN ANGELS

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I hear the heart of angels

beating in my blood again.

They march along my arteries.

They dance within my brain.

They sing a hymn of comfort

to take away all pain.

These messengers of God

keep alight my struggling flame.

The pain recedes so I may move

along the challenging lanes.

My hand is in the hand of angels

through sun and wind and rain.

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RICHARD FIERO

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“I had to protect my family.

And, everybody in that room was my family.”

So, Richard Fiero explained,

“These were all good people.”

The soul and heart are strained.

The heart and body are pained

beyond false boundaries of age,

race, gender, and faith.

Who stands partner with such grace,

spread by this hero who stood up to hate?

From whose pulpit will he be praised?

The same one which makes baseless claims

that simply being what God made,

true to self and biology,

somehow makes a sinner who must be saved?

Whose audacious foolery is this?

What jaundiced view leads 

gentle souls astray from God’s bliss

in the diversity of His creativity ?

Such dark roads followed by the judgement prone

lead always to the home which the violent call home.

Close down the dangerous paths from such pews.

Put up warning “unsafe” road signs. Shout the good news.

Accept all of God’s creation, or stand alone.

And, for God’s sake, embrace a truth known well;

following paths of fear lead straight to hell.

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LOVING ANGELO

Thanksgiving has always meant more  to me

than the holiday we celebrate happily

seated among broadened family.

It also means Angelo’s birthday.

He was born two years before I

on Thanksgiving Day,

and every 7 years or so

we could celebrate both joys

on the same day, November 28.

He has been gone too long,

yet memory remains

of a big brother 

like no other.

A Sicilian American boy born

American to the bone, 

Italian to the heart

whose need to be the Prince

was never questioned

except by me,

his pesty sister

who believed 

she was his equal 

in every way

on every day

in every play

trailing the gangly group of boys

across the street 

down the alley

up the trees

over the banks

into the river

despite the words

“GO HOME”

where I would 

have to play alone.

And so he let me stay.

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GLOBAL ECONOMY

Photo by Mike B on Pexels.com

Strange business is afoot.

Follow the tracks left in the mud

as business as usual

becomes extinct

and fascist species infiltrate

the dinosaurs of capitalism

overrun and underfed

by monopolistic greed 

run amok among the weeds,

the only thing that grows

in our overheated world.

The dinosaurs no longer dominate

the scene where freedom grew

like tall palms shading the weak.

The middle class world we knew

fades with dinosaur’s rule,

dinosaurs who forgot the rules,

or remembering stopped defending

what fueled their gains;

the undergrowth and seeds of change,

which made workers strong enough to fight

and hold in place a workable life.

The economy thins and the world spins,

wobbling on its axis,

afraid to embrace the taxes

on those weightier owners of capital

weighing workers down,

until the world drowns

under oceans of debt

for all but the one percent.

The middle class once stabilized

the drift of borders and axis tilts.

The middle class alone can stop

the spinning loss of nations tossed

into the sea, or into unbreathable space.

Can we once again embrace

the courage and grace to see

we will go the way of dinosaurs unless we

restore democracy and equality

to pursue true life, liberty and happiness for more

than only the top-heavy dinosaurs.

The middle class, and we, deserve much more.

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INTROVERTS

HIDING IN THE SPOTLIGHT, acrylic on canvass, Louise Annarino, 11/22/2022

Hiding in the spotlight

living out of sight

is a graceful dance

blocking the view

of the true you.

Light on your feet,

light dancing your own beat,

light blinding the audience’s eyes

to every flaw

no one ever saw,

except for you.

Hiding in the spotlight

is the safest place to be

on the stage,

where life plays out. 

The place to dance for those 

who give a performance 

brave and strong and true.

I applaud you.

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