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Sunday, February 4, 2018

Poetry By Donny Barilla

Bio:  Donny Barilla, born in Dallas, Texas, weaves around common themes, such as:  mythology, nature, human intimacy, and theology.  Writing on a daily basis, he engages in the beautiful landscapes that surround him in his home of Pennsylvania.   He currently works on his next book and has published in numerous journals and magazines.


Autumn Compromise

I rest by the sacred sycamore.
Leaves collect by my feet, legs.
Looking to the thin gauze of the sky,
I think of her,
slowly I place my cheek upon her breast.
I feed well into the hush of Winter.



Remembering Youth

The sky stretched as marble columns.

Into the wet grassy deep, I fell upon the riverbank

where we touched as children, suspended above ourselves

and withering of thirst.

I gave her the ointments of my youth.

From the weary distance, I heard the crows

wrestle forth with 'caw' and eager screech.

As in these memories, the sky still hung gray.

I could taste the milks of her breasts as they never were before.

The crocuses flushed and spread the sweet pollens

gripping upon a drift, I stood so still, the river dust

pasted the color yellow.

Onto the path, leading home, I felt the retreat of groin

and the wilting palms of my hands.

Clammed shut and gnarled as the drifting tree branch

I wept for her absence, distant stream, sky.



The Fountain

The coin slipped through the silk water,
slithered to the granite basin, bottom
where silent voices still murmured.

~

I sat for a distance, a journey.
I waited for the song to begin.
I faded within the wrapped warmth of my jacket.

~

Heavy breath fell upon my ears
and the sting of my reddened cheeks.

Her lips were full as blossoms
dancing into the breath of Springs nudity.

~

We met here.  Soaked in the treasures of heat and white sun.
Trimming my way to the sulk

of her heavy breasts.  I heard a moan of trickling water.
I spoke so soft to the flickering light.



Evening Roams

On the oldest of wooden porches
I sat on the wicker chair.

The fat of the sky bloomed
as the deepest blue hues fed the slender horizon.

Softly, a wild breeze tempered my thinning hair.
I spoke to the girth of moon, alive within its circles.

Tugged into the grip of the evening,
I spoke so loudly, the air around us fractured.

I sat silent and softly quiet.
A gentle rain tickled the grassy earth.

The steam from the tea rose as the foggy
mist of nights charm.

I fell upon the slouch of the envious sofa.
I grew damp by the press of misty night.










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