Wednesday, January 25, 2012

The Art of This Day

fractal (anonymous)

storm in the making
—dawn dibartolo, citrus heights

the symphony of winter leaves
blowing down the quiet street
heightens my poetic senses, and
I wish at once that I could paint
the way the naked, white trees
against the canvas of rain-laden,
slate-colored clouds is lightened
by the sun shining from behind me /
from around me / from within me.
I am the silhouette of shadow
cast upon the art of this day;
I am the speck of unintended splatter
that adds character to the piece;
I am the signature of an artistic God
upon his most memorable creation.
I am a storm in the making.


—dawn dibartolo

the candle burned wildly
in the wind from the ceiling fan
spilling wax onto black lacquer
and down to the wooden floor
in spikes of honey colored menace,
seemingly frozen in fragrant mid air.
if the fire had leapt from its wick,
he would breathe deeply,
unbroken calm, and say merely
“look at that,” pointing. in the cold
he does not shiver, in the heat
he does not sweat, unscathed
by life as it burns out around him.
he is not charred as I am,
unaware that days can become
inflamed; his skin is still armored
and his eyes bright with promise.
he is the porcelain place-setting on
an oaken table, the room
filled with smells of cooking meats
and garlic mashed potatoes,
undisturbed and waiting, stoic
in the belief that hunger
is only a phase. and here am I,
the starving junkie fearing
and anticipating ahead of time
the overwhelming super-high,
the sizzle of blue-red veins and
roiling blood, the very thought
making my heart beat double-pace,
even now, screaming from within
that the house is again in flames.


leather jacket & boots
—dawn dibartolo

if I cud bottle the leather jacket & boots
wear it like a fragrance
to repel the constant bullshit
I’d perhaps bite my tongue
& keep the angers to myself
coast thru day unphazed
be the sunshine intoned by the name
on the fringes of solemn autumn
be the sunshine intoned by the name
coast thru day unphazed
& keep the angers to myself
I’d perhaps bite my tongue
to repel the constant bullshit
wear it like a fragrance
if I cud bottle the leather jacket and boots


color printer
—dawn dibartolo

end of life.
magenta is dead.

rest in peace,
she says.

morbid way
to start the day,

but I’m wearing
mourner’s black;

pull the tab, and
now everything has

this lovely pinkish hue.


—dawn dibartolo

it all seemed so simple…
a breed of newness

that will rise from the old;
simple as words to a page

atop the scribblings of
a “throw-away” poem;

the new story will be read.
some don’t believe and want

to tell you who you are and
what verbs your poem should use,

but for the poetess, the very word
“verb” is redefined on a whim.

yes, I am simply made and
can be simply new

however the words tend
to grace this given page.


Today's LittleNip: 

I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything.

—Steven Wright



fractal (anonymous)