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La Piccioletta Barca - Issue 16
The Phoenix

The Phoenix

I have been pleading for the fire to come
For a long time now; it springs up from the ground
In a shining, shifting arabesque and paints

My world in sweeping strokes of crimson.

It crawls up old and weary features masked

By a net of scars so ancient

Even they have given up being angry.

I dance among the lapping flames,
Shedding despairs like feathers.

This is the cruelest kind of ecstasy.

Memories are burnt for fuel.

And every point of pride or regret,

Pleasures so weathered they have

Become burdens, years of sorrow,

Years of joy, every triumph and defeat,

Hopes and doubts, all these things

Which once tugged at my limbs

Until every move I made was like a sailor

Trying to swim against a riptide,
They all cascade down my naked frame
To gather, impotent, at my feet,
Reduced to a pile of whispering ash;

Slowly, my body crumbles until the screams

Of joyous pain have no throat left to live in.
The flames subside… and I emerge,
Stretching new muscles, testing the limits

Of altered bones and virgin flesh,

Eager to hear the sound of my voice for the first time.

Stepping forward, the ashes of my old body are scattered

Into the wind, only echoes now.

 

I am a recent graduate from New Jersey who graduated with a B.A. in Creative Writing with a History minor from Farleigh Dickinson University. I am an emerging writer currently working on my first novel and with an unpublished book of poetry based on Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I write both poetry and prose, and tend to lean towards the mythic, the fantastic, and the bizarre in my writing.

When Waves Meet

When Waves Meet

Sometimes, when two waves meet in the ocean,
They embrace, each smoothing the movement
Of the other, and are calm.

Stepping on the shore, every grain of sand
Is a fossil of a word spoken long ago
And far down in the depths of the ocean.

Their tones are too deep for my ears,
But I can hear them with the soles of my feet.
The sand sends currents up my legs,
Guiding tides through my spine,
Generating waves in my chest cavity,
Whose salt spray is picked up by breezy thoughts
And gusty cares.

Sometimes, I can even find sand in the clouds,
Though they are never anything other
Than a low, indistinct bass
Among all the noise of the inner atmosphere.

When they were spoken,
The force of these words
Chafed the stone lips on the stone faces
That make up the ocean floor.

Chanting like monks,
They mutter stony sutras
That swirl deep waters.
They keep chanting until,
In grinding themselves together
To form inevitable consonants,
Their lips erode into sand.

They will speak themselves into oblivion.

Sometimes, the sand compacts itself
Into a new face and the cycle continues.
Other times, the sand drifts out
On the tides it created
To settle on distant shores.

Oftentimes, these waves will clash
And crawl over each other
Until they churn themselves into a monsoon.
Or, one will grow so big that it dwarfs the others
And tramples them all into insignificance.

But, sometimes, as in me,
Two waves will meet in the ocean,
Embrace, and be calm.

I am a recent graduate from New Jersey who graduated with a B.A. in Creative Writing with a History minor from Farleigh Dickinson University. I am an emerging writer currently working on my first novel and with an unpublished book of poetry based on Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I write both poetry and prose, and tend to lean towards the mythic, the fantastic, and the bizarre in my writing.

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