Joe DiMattio


Again, from around some bend in the desert
it’s coming at us
in bits and bytes and blasts
in waves and patterns and some apparent order
and structures that counter gravity --
giving us layers to live in and hide.

it’s coming in color with no favorites,
with texture and squish
and pain, oh yes, pain.

i can see it smashing through
ignoring the old order
and the little sense there was.

it’s coming in color and new juxtapositions
with passion and meaning
confusion and hidden movement.

it’s just coming out of the bend
a bit of movement
still difficult to make any sense of
as we are required to.

Malarme "Sainted Spring"

Each year, at the cracked opened casement window,
the old woman sits breathing in the scented air that
moves the new spring dresses up and down
following the flute music of the moment.

Are the sainted always pale and gaunt
with hearts worn weak from sinking
like the magnificent bellies of old workhorses
that stand tied to nowhere.

Through the hazed glass the new light
filters on to old bones and new strawberries,
through old instrument strings
choosing its own angles and musical sadness
to cut a delicate new path.

Ten times she did this on the same cracked sill.
This same old horse each spring,
always a balance with music accompanying
new spring feathers.
Always waving loose and
always with a new brand of silence.

The Moon’s Light
(A tribute to Bhasa who looked at the moon long ago)

The moon’s yellow light
on the snout of the lonely dog
who barks
thinking it was the cat.

When the yellow rays
touch the tree limbs
the frog deems them love
and sings and swells,
and sings and swells.

The moon sends down truth
but reflections
catch the eyes of this world
seeking more.

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