December 10-16, 2012: Paul DeVito and Stanley H. Barkan

Paul DeVito and Stanley H. Barkan


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Paul DeVito
devitopaul.devito@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Paul DeVito is a poet from Fayetteville, New York.

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Paul DeVito and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Out of the Storm

She flew in my window
with such a rush,
the wind swept back the curtains,
she looked at me and
alighted on the dresser
next to the vase of wildflowers,
she seemed so calm
all of a sudden, so happy
to be out of the storm,
I closed the window
and smoothed the curtains,
the candle finally settled down
and I sat down to eat dinner,
suddenly she lifted her wings
and flew around the room
quickly, around and around
until she landed on my plate
and began to eat my bread.


Stanley H. Barkan
cccpoetry@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Stanley H. Barkan, the editor/publisher of the Cross-Cultural Review Series of World Literature and Art, has, to this 40th anniversary year, produced some 400 titles in 50 different languages. His own work has been translated into 25 different languages, and published in 15 collections, several of them bilingual He was New York City’s 1991 Poetry Teacher of the Year (awarded by Poets House and the Board of Education) and the 1996 winner of the Poor Richard’s Award, “The Best of the Small Presses” (awarded by the Small Press Center), for “25 years of high quality publishing.” He lives with his artist-wife, Bebe, in Merrick, Long Island.

The following work is Copyright © 2012, and owned by Stanley H. Barkan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

April

If not the cruelest,
then certainly
the most unkind.
The buds peek out
of the last snows
only to be blown away,
ripped from their dreaming roots.
Rains still come
but mix with ice.
All the earth
readies
for bright new starts
without true promise.
Which is worse:
expectation
of things not to come
or none at all?
The day the fledglings
fly from their nests
they find the beaks of falcons,
the claws of cats.

 

May

So
the flowers
have come,
at last.
Millefiore—
all the colors
of the mythic rainbow.
The little girls wear them
in their hair,
prepare
for the dance
around the pole
we dreamt about
as children.
Butterflies are still
in chrysalis,
moths in pupa.
When hint of summer sun
will warm their cool cocoons,
they’ll spread their wings
and flutter out
on petals firm to the seed
on edge of branch,
open to the greater
and lesser lamps
spotlighting
their all too brief
encounter with the air.

 

December

As inevitable as death,
December comes
with snow and ice
covering
rooftops, eaves,
crowns of trees,
mountaintops,
valleys.
The moon is wafer,
the sky black
with chalk-scrawled stars.
All the lakes frosted—
everyone can
walk on water.
Only the evergreens
retain their fierce grip
on the stuff of earth,
stretching towards Heaven.
White feathers fall—
geese arrow south,
honking, “Tomorrow!
Tomorrow!”