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Poetry

Green

Green

I say I love being close to you with a story about a poet’s green thumb. You breathe in the leaves and feel your fingers furl/unfurl the edges of a book I’ve put in your lap, a long line of words rigged to make some sense of wonder, the pages laid out like a clearing, woodland bound and tilled, contained…

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Autumn

Autumn

The wind brings cool air and swirling leaves falling gracefully to the ground, covering the lake with brocade flourishes, painting the sky with bursts of flaming colours as the leaves fall from the trees, delicately finding places to land leaving skeletal trees with no cover for the wicked winter to come.   Frances Garofalo was the winner of the 2022…

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skein

skein

         I             saw               in             the               sky                  a                  skein                      of                         geese                           like                             a                                neck-                                       lace                                         un-                                              done                                                under-                                                     sides                                                   wink-                                                     ing                                                   grey                                                and                                              white                                                     pearls                                                          the sky                                                              had                                                                 loosen-              …

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The Pitch

The Pitch

– For Len Gasparini I could have mumbled a poem at you Easily yet the mornings bring a batter up That knows little of what a true Arm presses from pectoralis to wrist Twisting ahead of a nervous bat Quickly      adjusting But my eyes    if you look    know Nothing Like the sound that whips by my ear My arm a…

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The House

The House

I’ve never visited Grace Street, but draft an image from my mother’s stories. The brick is brownish-yellow; a leafless skeleton of ivy radiates in snow. Neighbour noises leak into the front lawn—the rattle of a gate rammed shut, followed by ma va fa’un— chicka-dee-dee-dee splitting through street, trash and compost huddle on the curb. Slabs of concrete escort you past…

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To Marshall McLuhan

To Marshall McLuhan

You were right, dear professor, the great vortex came in time whirling us into the pond in which Narcissus saw his beauteous reflection. No longer an extension of the hand, the mouth, the ear, no longer a tool, but an obsession, a possession Narcissus mesmerized by his own image til he lingered and perished. In the dispiriting cafés in front…

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weak cloth

weak cloth

we are made of weak cloth and barely woven fabric sewed, having chosen a design because of texture, jute or silk having chosen a colour, violet brown or red, for the breadth of cotton held against light for the depth of denim that soaks up all stains weak cloth never woven for the strength of weft for the sounds it…

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Unfoundland

Unfoundland

  When they were old men they couldn’t recall if they had strode that mystery, or if another sailor had bragged of walking on the broad backs of cod all the way to the shore of the new found land; though even Caboto himself might have baulked at that word ‘found’: his tensed eyes saw nothing you could pin down,…

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Feux Rouges

Feux Rouges

At the carrefours, signs and avenues Usher us to divergent destinations. We trace thoughts through clouds, Neuronal bridges tethering Roads. Branching out deltas Of serpentine labyrinth loops In the expanding metropolis. In toxic sub-zero dawn Traffic exhales Nauseous exhaust. Night shuts its wings And the sun, ethereal egg To the east, fries its way west Over easy, on this town…

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The Door

The Door

“Go shut the door,” he told me, and I stopped a second, wondering exactly what he meant, if I’d been wrong to leave it propped open, if drafts were getting in, if “shut” meant something different, if he had asked before, if “door” could be a metaphor for our relationship, if we were past the point when shutting doors would…

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Language

Language

when my mother died so did our language the one we spoke each day at the kitchen table each night by the hum of the television on the telephone   between visits the language that dropped from the open window above her garden while she pruned and tied and watered an old language perfect for prayers she whispered songs she sang…

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Wasted Talent

Wasted Talent

“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, ‘I used everything you gave me.’” – Erma Bombeck But what if you stood before Him at the close of your moments still stuffed with unused talents? Only a few bits used…

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On the Trace of a Desire

On the Trace of a Desire

You were blowing like a light breeze I felt you on my skin like a whirlwind. I brought my ear close and all became calm. Your hair was silky your eyes were charmed by a vivid green. It was not me it was the reflection of your own words. It was not mine the mirrored image it was the shell…

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Soul Mate

The intravenous drips, whispering life back into you with its moist breath. Coaxing you drop by drop to re-hydrate. Imploring your depleted spirit to respond reach out and suck the bag dry. Who says machines don’t have a soul? Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli is an alumna of the Humber School for Writers. Her novel La Brigantessa (Inanna Publications, 2018) won Gold…

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The Elderly Woman on the Bus

The elderly woman on the bus sitting beside her husband looks like my grandmother: her eyes, the high cheekbones, the restrained smile; her chignon is white with traces of faded blonde— My grandmother’s bun was white too, coiled and braided, once black or dark brown— the submissive wife of a Sicilian paterfamilias, Don Carmelo slept with a knife under his…

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Acceptance

You force-feed him out of love. Food is life, after all. But he resists clamps his mouth shut rejects it. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be forced any more. Perhaps his time has come to s l o w l y withdraw . . . from food from you from life Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli’s novel La Brigantessa (Inanna, 2018) won…

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Lingua

Lingua

quando e` morta  mia mamma e` morta anche la nostra lingua quella che parlavamo ogni giorno insieme ogni giorno alla tavola in cucina ogni sera sotto il rumore della televisione al telefono   tra visite quella lingua che scappava dalla finestra e arrivava in giardino mentre piantava, allacciava,  annaffiava una vecchia lingua perfetta per le preghiere che recitava le canzoni che…

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What Leaving Brings

What Leaving Brings

I In the timelessness that is empathy, he watched them all go. He watched them go amidst indigo: the dark hues of pre-morning, the smear of clouds not yet shaped; the promise of radiance not yet come; before the world was made and life began its throb and hum. The sun warmed them soon enough or maybe; it did not…

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The Voice That I Have Heard In Recent Dreams

The Voice That I Have Heard In Recent Dreams

“The Stranger now saddles me into my bliss. I wear the rising sun at my heart’s core. White roses bloom beneath the supernovae. If I should stir a sleeping alley-beggar on my wind-backed way, I may give him a glimpse of his daydream’s Paradise while our opening eyes might soon meet through the wintry winds of this late summer dawn. I feel the Stranger’s whip now heal me.…

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Retrogram

Retrogram                to J. Michael Yates What was all that organized chaos but an intelligent storm, words, marching down the page like a biological imperative, and the bright mischief, the challenge when you pushed buttons, edges, grammar, thought, your mind a keen wind, brisk but not blustery, from the north, all day.  We talked…

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The Ascent

The Ascent

I bathe at the well of living water, dipping the pen in ink of tears, words, as crumbs, come up from the well of feelings and lips are parting to the bread of your love. The eyes open to the world, following your light and hands resting on the chest in prayer. I feel the pink of the cherry tree…

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24 Hours

Through cobbled streets, old historic houses      returning scents of flavoured bread and oil; men in ties graced by the steps of spouses,      visages wed to art modes, trades, and toil… A rest at Federici, to savour      some dolci, the namesake folks home-labour and, prey to native sights smeared in fancy,      for just a moment wished I quit it there— vanished with…

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The Grape Harvest

Strolling on a lazy afternoon I passed the local grape-crushing site My senses felt the smell as an invite I couldn’t resist the call and went inside To pass the time with old familiar sights, But I saw none; The vats, the press, grape skins littering the paths, Bare-footed boys and shirtless men, They were all gone. Their shapes soon…

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Food tv fantasia

Each morning espresso or cappuccino at historic chic cafe’s in rome, milan, venice and florence Under a rising Mediterranean sun At noon Ligurian olives, kissed with extra virgin oil Prosciutto di parma Pasta made by milanese hands Tuscan wine in murano goblets Bocconcini di bufala and basilico Al fresco beneath a Mediterranean mezzogiorno Vistas of dream cities in background Evenings…

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nessun dorma, camp petawawa, 1940

“My head was still resonant with song. . .” Mario Duliani they sent hundreds of italian men to petawawa. to sit out the war just in case they tried to start a revolution. just in case they turned the whole place upside down. they sang on the train going up sang in corners of the camp like shy birds blew…

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Fingerprints

A rough, work-worn wind beat the air when my grandfather spoke sturdy fingers contouring his sons and daughters, blunting their days. He liked to play life close to the chest, his heavy-handed love stroked his wife into a fine, carved chair. Calloused palms landed on his daughter trying out her legs—each time she budged, strained her neck or let songs…

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As I Watch My Father Fading

As I Watch My Father Fading As I watch my father fading I realize we begin our lives With nothing but love And end our lives the same way.   From Random Thoughts: Poetry and Prose Sketches (2010)

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Vita Brevis

Short back and long bangs, but our barber never got it right. Gentile’s place—you know it. Two leather chairs, mirror, clipper, newspaper, radio on low, everything lit in one hue. I’d bring my GQ photo. What the hell kind of hairstyle is that? Self-knowledge was always knowledge of what I was not. In my native buzz-cut, I bummed around Chabanel’s neo-realist…

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Cattivo Ragazzino

Mid-afternoon rays fell through the bay window’s lace curtain veil to rest warmly on the insides of my soft little thighs as I sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor of the spacious dining room where mama held her appointments, took measurements and did fittings for well-to-do women, each determined to be the first in her circle to sport the next…

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lasso the moon

what is it you want? I ain’t no jimmy stewart but just say the word by this lake that nudges up against the night sky feels like we’re all wet behind the ears sometimes can you see these stars fresh from the sunset?   you want the moon? stand back I’ll throw a lasso around it pull it down a…

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One All Souls’ Day

On that November morning, she slipped into the dress she'd worn to the last family funeral— blue and white pin-striped, navy flats to match, the cashmere sweater from her grandmother brought years before from Italy. In silence, she and her husband drove to church, attended the Mass for All Souls. They settled themselves in the last pew, stood and knelt…

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The Light and Sky in Winnipeg

This sunlight belongs in a Mediterranean harbour or outside the shade of a small orange grove above the sea on a steep limestone cliff in the middle of the village square around 4:00 when the tables outside the caffè hug the walls and its low pale shadow. Here is August morning light and red crabapples dot a green tree like…

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The Neighbourhood is Changing

the old men have nowhere to go banished like corroded barges in some abandoned port they sit cooled by the wind of streetcars on the corner of Grace Street and College the faded wooden benches are the only welcoming seats that accommodate their time so much time now since their backs gave out and their legs have jelly in them…

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After September 11, 2001

It's winter already - locked doors and windows keep out the cold the warm days of laughter and song will never come back - people freezing in the streets don't think of them anymore: dream that disappears at waking when one cuddles in search of warmth on trees naked crows croak I (like others) keep the fire going Translated from…

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