May 25-31, 2020: Poetry from LindaAnn LoSchiavo and David LaBounty

LindaAnn LoSchiavo and David LaBounty

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LindaAnn LoSchiavo
nonstopny@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo is a dramatist, writer, and poet. Her poetry chapbooks “Conflicted Excitement” [Red Wolf Editions, 2018], “Concupiscent Consumption” [Red Ferret Press, 2020], and “A Route Obscure and Lonely“‘ [Wapshott Press, 2020] along with her collaborative book on prejudice [Macmillan in the USA, Aracne Editions in Italy] are her latest titles. She is a member of The Dramatists Guild and SFPA. Read an interview with Linda here.

The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by LindaAnn LoSchiavo and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

How My Father Went Blind

My father slowly lost his vision though
He didn’t see it coming. His teenage
Face, tilting upwards, studied Brooklyn’s sky
On Independence Day. Bright flashes flung
Towards heaven — — Roman candles, comets — — spoke
In German: mortars, aerial shells, mines.
His family watched as Hitler hogged headlines:
Annihilation, concentration camps.
When Uncle Sam knocked, he surrendered thick
Italian hair, mock manhood’s pompadour.
Unlike shorn Samson, he felt stronger, believed
That if G.I.s hoped, fought for victory,
The universe would pay attention, might
Mold wanting into bold reality.
His twenty-twenty was not good enough
For flight school — — only adequate to gain
Eligibility to jump from planes.

The bomb squad stayed intact, forever friends,
Fired off missives, air-mailed, unafraid,
Creating camaraderie tighter
Than elbow room inside their Air Force plane.
Survival, sex, salvation strengthened them.
The baby boom rewarded bravery,
Peace spinning into gold reality.

Their pilot went blind first, his vision peeled
Away like sunburnt skin. But Uncle Sam
Disavowed all responsibility
As, one by one, they lost the gift of sight.
The universe stopped paying attention here.

My father’s retinas released their grasp
Of greens and grays. He couldn’t drive at night.
Newspapers’ small fonts became unreadable.
Small drusen — — stoney granules — — multiplied.
He dreamt of black-outs, Europe occupied.
He couldn’t sketch the faces of fallen friends,
Lost his ability to tell claret
Apart from a Chianti Classico,
Detect a weed from grapevines, watch sunset.

Now blindness held him in captivity.

When death escorted him to quieter
Corridors, his eyes up-turned, all prepared
To face the fusillade of so much light.


David LaBounty
davelabounty@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

David LaBounty is the author of the novel Affluenza and the poetry collection Moon Chalk. His work has appeared in several journals including, Rattle, The New Plains Review, Booth and many others. He has held jobs a a miner, a reporter, a mechanic and a salesman. He lives in Clarkston, Michigan.

The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by David LaBounty and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

ode to an addict(ion)

it’s not
the
lack of
will power

no

it’s the
haunting
of
stones
and
apples

……..and eve

you know eve

she ate
that
first
apple
and
every
bite
of
apple
……..….has been
fair game
ever since

i’ve eaten the apple

again
and
again

i’ve eaten the apple
……..……..……………..since

i first
tasted it at
the aching
age of
twelve

and now

years later

at the
past due
age of
fifty one
i still
keep
the
apple
with me

it’s always there

there in my pocket

or in my
kitchen
tucked
away
between
the
music
and
the milk

and stones

there is
no one
to throw
stones
at me
when
i eat
the
apple

as if
no one
cares
if
i am
dying
just a
bit
with
each
bite
of this
breathing
and
roaming
apple

and this i do

this i always do

unseen

in the
brightest
light
………of this

and

every other day