Donny Barilla has been writing poetry for over three decades and had maintained a passion for poems of nature, love, mythology, and intimacy. He lives in the state of Pennsylvania and draws from the landscape which continually surrounds him. His first book, “Treasures” has been released in August of two thousand sixteen. He lives a reclusive lifestyle and finds great inspiration in the beautiful nature that surrounds him.
Lovemaking in the Winter Hour
Her hands-like icicles
slipped beneath my belt
and buckle. Weaved through the foliage
of my chest and groin.
Her lips- painted a deep crimson
tugged warmth from beneath
my skin, my tender thighs.
I felt the heat pound against the freeze
of my abdomen and I crept to the surface
of her tongue, so softly I breathed.
I am witness to the crescent curve
of her doughy breasts.
I sank, deepened into her
tepid and alive- her snow powdered skin.
Together we melted from the diaphragm
and sulked, reborn into a genuflect
of pulsing hot veins, drip of the fragrant bush.
I reached inside of her
and mumbled a verb of enticement-
plasmas flush across in winters breadth.
At the Machais
I dipped, swam through the icy arms
of the heavy Machais.
I heard the tears of the slithering grass
fall as a glisten- a dying frost.
In the gloat of the visible distance
I heard a scream, from tumbling pastures
there was a fall across the slap of the ocean.
I turned my head, bust and welcomed the winds
as they tunneled above the calmness -
the saps of the bushes begged for touch.
I heard the cry of the black fly, as it steeped
through the buckling winds.
I softly screamed to the roof of the fog dipped earth.
Sweetly, I love the fly as it dreamed it's way
to the Machais- slow I surrender.
I could feel the slippery dew of morning
I feel the throb of the Autumn.
A glaze to forested floor, a thin gauze,
I revealed myself to the sauce of cove and bend.
Pit and Pail
The plums withered in the sun
-withered with age. I smell the sweetness
rising to the palate of the careful breeze.
I bent and gathered a few in my palm.
My teeth snapped the naked black flesh
and hurriedly it seeped across my lips,
corners of my mouth, which opened
like a draw bridge and slapped my
tongue and fumbled to the back of my
The stem of my plums yearned for
the tree and it's fathering roots.
I can feel the flesh of the plum, sap
across the pit and pail of my chest, stomach.
I dug a generous hole in the earth,
I buried the raped pit, waiting for a good rain.
With lightning dashing from the joust of my tongue
I swam into her, the inks of the sky, spread poison
through both vein and an endless cavern of life. I swept,
circling dust above the crest of my torso and bust.
The porch held the hand of the mashing rains. I-
am witness to the flickering lights, held by the backdrop
of nightfall, each felt rivulet dresses the dust
into a smolder of soft buzzing light. I could hear
country music dazzle the late night which conference
the jazzes of the tumultuous dust. Calmly, I-
gathered the hot flesh, as if born of the apple,
a crack, snapping bite from her skin. Juice, plasma, and
tepid creams positioned from her valleys where her
meadows begged, nursed the grimace of the sky.
I recall her allowing the dress she wore falling-
caressing the curve of the gentle dresser and bed.
I submitted to the slippery touch of finger, thumb, and cuticle.
I pressed into her and I felt the sprinting static and loosening,
the deepening charge wilts around me. The fire of the night sky
fumbles around me as I whimper in all subtlety.