In a world of shrivel and wilt
When what we need is seed and sprout
I am neither gather nor grow
I am wither and rot
TDM
Tag: blogger
Hug from Nonna
I hug my Nonna twice a year:
On her birthday
And on mine
But only because I engage
I announce the occasion
Buon compleano!
Lean in
And wrap one arm around her shoulders
I love you
I love you too
A kiss on the cheek
Maybe
But more likely reserved
For milestone occasions
TDM
Lying on a Rock
I disengaged myself
And let every tender vertebra
Feel as pious as
The stone
They were held upon
And reaching overhead
In my supinated situation
I gasped
And let my hands fall to
The pate of the rock
Connecting them like
A halo
Twisting my fingers
Around my own locks
Tangling them between the crown
On my head
Where the coolness of
The stone had met my skull
Supporting it
TDM
Nostalgia
I thought it was about time I posted something, so here is a poem I wrote that was published in “Hearing Voices,” an anthology of poetry released by Bareback Press.
When we were young
we scraped our knees
and it felt good.
We looked to the street
lamps like golden lanterns
to light our way home,
as luminaries with promises
of warm blankets
and sweet delights,
and for that, we knew
when the day had ended,
when our breath finally
caught up with us,
for we were certainly
more inclined to hold
warm hands and
turn over our beds
while our hair clung
to sheets of perfumed lilac,
the last trace of warm weather,
and covering our eyes to
hide from the harvest moon,
we laughed ourselves
to sleep through thin walls
of in-jokes and outcomes.
T. DM
A Window With A View
Do I look upon a wintry night?
From a window with a view?
From a frosty ledge with chattering teeth,
All snuggled up in wool, and wear?
Or do I look upon a wintry night
From a rooftop high in the city’s core?
Leaning against a chimney with sniffles
Of ice, dripping from my frosty nose?
Surely I am bound to see more stars
With the sky as my canvasing frame
rather than if I were looking through layers
of glass and window pane,
for what is a perfect night
behind a wall?
Nothing but vicarious meandering
And wishful thinking,
No frosty breaths or rosy cheeks
To conjure the season’s spirits,
What a shame to let the
frost dissipate in that way.
T. DM
Poetry and Prose by Teresa Di Matteo 