Four Poems

Creatures

they say unto me,
the specter of the mountain
may kill you

and I comply in restraint.

with the silence of circling eagles in my heart
I seek wisdom from the bold
so that I may defy them
repeal the heredities
which whisper boyishly
in the shaded brush
tell them the center of the world
hides in the ruins of my gut

soaked in your kiss
the rose nectar of your lips
ambrosia perfumes my skin
inciting belief
while the breath of autumn
slides serpentine around this flesh
chained to solemn trees unseen
the deft breeze whisks the whispers
to my ears
unyielding prophecies of relent

and these creatures
make me believe I can’t fly
and the urge to climb
is just the make believe of desire

creatures
they say unto me
go
and I go
 

Up Into the Blue

Like gossamer,
you are beauty, dear,
rituals hold you safe from
the storms within this breeze,
a torrent of tomorrow screams on
before the breath; sudden and distorted,
on the whims of shining cipher it comes,
calling, calling into depths of days,
entwined, encircled by the other you see
objects obscene and unseen, a verse
of the vagrant sigh, a psalm for December;
June, you sweet song,
sullen the signal which sent me along
to praise these years, these storms, these waves
of webbed clouds seducing the still earth,
arise tulip, make believe in lights and days,
hold and live and love these days,
these drops I can not.

                                                        

Nightlight

Astringent, this vacancy appeals me,
uneases me, releases me from hope;
sounds like brass bells wedding,
breezes falling with the deftness of a drift,
supposed unblemished by some whirlwind relent;
pinwheels twirling according to belief
belie subsistence, faltering we fetter
to yesterday’s principle,
tossed out with papers and fish bones
for vagrants and vandals
and all the lolly-gagging dyers of the days.

Stupid appeals to the placated seer,
the vacancy of time since before calculated glances;
nothing perfunctory about the winds of change and ambition,
except these winds blow with the force of history
and the invective devices of apposition;
time again is no appeal to no time, or lost time;
this tires me unrelentingly, mercilessly,
with the vitriolic, stellar precision of some sniper’s stare
from behind the saccharine brush;

if only sleep did what it claimed,
though perhaps it does.

Fifty-Six (When the Sun Hides)

A touch of autumn in your eyes
to guide me home amongst amber leaves and dead branches,
summer’s steeds in the crest of dawn,
imbued with the spirit of blooming flesh in lonely caves,
indebted to this recurrence of ruffled thoughts;

the visions of voice persist,
rapt with the coming winds,
clear-hearted zephyr with wind-swift stallions
sweeping fields and riverbanks,
souls strewn like sediment,
to sink, to rest upon tides and shores
of some other season.
 

Daniel J. DioGuardi, of Queens, New York, holds degrees in English Literature from St. Francis College (NY) and the University of Maryland, College Park. He drinks lush red wine, eats frozen dark chocolate, peels the air, and tries to change the world.