NOT MY CUP OF TEA

NOT MY CUP OF TEA

Well, I didn’t want tea anyway.

I asked for Chianti wine,

but she shook her head and pointed

to the cup. “This will do just fine.”

I did not want to offend her,

she seemed the fragile kind,

so, I took the tea and drank some,

told her I did not mind.

Oh, the British tea was steaming,

it burned my upper lip.

I spit it out like a whale’s spout

spraying passing ships.

Well, I didn’t want tea anyway,

I ventured once again.

In Sicily, it’s Chianti wine

and we drink it quite plain:

No crumpets or flaky scones,

no biscuits dunked to swim.

Sicilian boys grow tough and brave

with glasses filled to brim.

And by the way, I said once more:

I didn’t want the tea.

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SPARROWS DON’T CARE

SPARROWS DON’T CARE

 [based on artwork by Peterio]

What do blackbirds care whether tree branch or

skeletal arm branches out for perching?

Late afternoon walkers see them at rest

and wonder if in their avian dreams

they see behind closed eyes the gifts of seed

scattered at their clasping toes or the wind

howling dark secrets about the demise

of autumn. What do blackbirds care if branch

or human arm uphold them at the heights?

Nor do they venture into the whys

and wherefores of the trunk’s rotting shoots,

how even trees die and from the chests of

the loveless, hearts break loose and fly away.

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ZENDEL WAITS OUT THE NIGHT

ZENDEL WAITS OUT THE NIGHT

[Based on Art by – Ooberxandxdavie6]

Somewhere in the far-off mountains,

hiding in crevice or dark cave,

Zendel waits out the Martian night.

Beneath the two moons of Phobos

and Deimos, he fights against sleep

where ogres crouch waiting to kill.

No one and nothing can save him.

He imagines his mother

high on the branch of a burned-out

wood, searching, begging the Martian gods

to command the rigid mountains:

“Release Zendel! Release the boy!”

When dawn breaks across the Martian sky,

mother and son trek towards home.

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REAP OR WEEP

REAP OR WEEP

Seeds of faith sown in fertile fields

of heart bear much fruit if the farmer

tends to his labors judiciously,

regards each seed a newborn world

where graces thrive in Light brighter

than the sun. Will the farmer reap

or weep? Will he refuse to plant

for a bountiful harvest or

take to shovel and hoe and sow

the heart fields thirsty and hungry

for new beginnings?

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EVEN LOVE TAKES PRISONERS

EVEN LOVE TAKES PRISONERS

[inspired by MKA Photography]

How effortless it would be to cast off

these fetters of rope! But she sits there,

head bowed like a penitent enduring

the penance of captivity, staring

down the unraveling as though the twists

and curls of rope could be deciphered,

perhaps reveal what will become of her.

In the fog of thought she replays her crime,

squints the scene through the opaque mental screen.

The two of them faceless, a mesh of hands,

promises exchanged. Where did she go wrong?

Did she love too much? Not Enough? He vanished

in the thin air of her grief without goodbye.

Now she sits there and wonders How long before

before she wriggles free her wrists so cuffs

fall and she can dream of finding love again.

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SELF-PORTRAIT

 

  (My poem is based on a painting by Kyla @Deviantart)

This is how my critics will remember me,

the painter gone raving mad in his studio,

a scape of land or sea sadly unfinished,

a sky so morosely dark the blue dappled to gray.

These eyes once joyfully squinted out of focus

so that I might envision the sketched canvas

imbued with pigments, a painting brushed into life.

Now the eyes you see in this self-portrait

lock themselves in a black-rimmed bugging stare

that confesses lunacy. Bands and splotches of red,

blue and yellow: colors meant for saner work.

What am I thinking here? Will a caption save me?

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(C) 2017 by Salvatore Buttaci