ę Frank De Canio Ľ

Winter Harvest

I garner branches in a sheaf
who once plucked pear and nectarine.
And daffodils that gave relief
to me are nowhere to be seen.
My nights are spent in threadbare grief,
and balmy days, wherein Iíd glean
sweet happiness, however brief,
have vanished with the seasonís green
in shades of autumn, like a thief.
Now once abundant trees are lean
and russet has become the chief
estate of hues that intervene
to lighten up the grey motif
that seals my fate with harsh routine.

String Theory

Itís always music when youíre young.
Adversityís a cello bow.
Dashed hopes are melodies that flow
from violin strings tautly strung.
Lifeís burdens are guitars weíve slung
around our necks so tunes can grow
from the discordances of woe.
And even sniffling sighs are sung
in measures that let singers crow
their triumph over loves that stung
their senses. What do lovers know
of sobs when bellows fill each lung?
And so I wish as gale winds blow
that age possessed a honeyed tongue.

Frank De Canio lives in New Jersey and works in Manhattan. Psychology major - a few credits short of a BA degree. He loves the theater, music of all kinds ranging from Bach to Bob Dylan, Shakira, Latin pop, opera, etc., some world music. He has written over 1000 poems, so he's bound to repeat himself. He has been published in Red Owl, Rook Publications journal, Pleiades, Danger, Nuthouse, and a few more journals forthcoming including Medicinal purposes.

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