DONNY BARILLA - POEMS
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.
Shades of Green
Dampness thickened throughout the air, climbing
moisture yet settling upon the grassy spread.
Weeds and ancient mulch, soaked from last year,
unleashed a yawning thirst.
The nave of the stream, coiled in a sapped and slippery
bedded cove hosted each pebble and jagged rock
as I tossed them to the their origin, the threading waters.
When the wind surmounted mints, I
paused and smiled as the trembling breeze fumbled
upon my ash gray beard.
Following the curve of the creek, I stood close to the evergreen,
the spruce, and pine.
I smiled as the trees shook their shades of green.
A gathering of pine needles grew so inviting.
I lay softly and slept.
Winds slope across my face and dancing flannel.
Swiftly, I embrace the arms of a deafened January, which
groans through the death of tree branches and speaks
with the crinkling parchments of every fallen leaf.
I gently open my mouth and gather
the sobbing trickle of the falling snow.
The lake was a brick of ice.
I stood on frozen waters edge and watched
the oldest oak leaf scurry across surface,
then stick so snug to rock and rotting log.
By evening, pinks bleed to purples
and the Winter fattens for a heavy birth.
I lean as a trellis against each coughing tree.
The limbs and twigs flutter and groom
with powdery white.
Scent of Autumn
Scampering across the leafy earth,
the tan breasted bird snatched a seed.
I stood by and watched the twigs roll
in the rippling waves, a high crest of capped waves.
Suddenly, the soft, cool wind dredged.
I could taste the flavors of Autumn
which quicken at my face and burning ears.
Looking upon the kneeling clouds
sunk from the passing skyline, I stood
and witnessed the cabins stand like sentinels of lakes edge
guarding the soft dome and sulking
against the maze of the patterned forest.
Here, the giggling leaves, so robust,
drifted across the chilled icy water.
Hearing her voice,
the smoothest of words tendered across the volleying winds.
I sank my teeth to the saucy flesh of Autumn,
disrobing upon the dredge of the crackling branches,
these foams and froths sank to the carpets of gathered leaves.
The rain sliced through the sky.
Leaves cupped, gathered the tender juice
pocketed in the upturned veins.
Within the farmhouse, the young mother
removed her breast.
Puckering the pulps during the dance
of this Summers breach and fracture,
the crimp of the infant sulked in this treasure.
Morning. She plucked the basil, thyme.
Mud gathered about her ankle and heel.
Sauces hung to the sliver of each grass blade.
Sipping a ceramic mug of bristling coffee, she
found a walnut, caked in the clays of a forgotten earth.
Stirring within her, she felt her milks stir.
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