diamonds

I've heard everything is about politics,
and sometimes it almost seems as if everything is.
But this morning there was snow in the bald branches
where the trees had reached up and caught
the falling flakes.
And as I stood alone in my kitchen,
steam rising from my coffee
I watched as the sun lit the woods
and it was as if the air was full of diamonds.

learning to cook

When I was a young man,
I cooked everything on Hi,
the knob turned all the way to the right
and the coils a furious red.

I left a scorched trail to the trashcan;
the denizens of the cabinet and refrigerator alike
quaked at my approach.

There was no time for caramelizing,
no time for saute.

As time runs down, I have discovered
by turning the dial to Low
I can slow the passing of the hours
maybe make what is left stretch
into years.

The Star Bridge Awaits

Take my hand, the star bridge awaits -
be brave -
we're going to descend from the heavens
we were born to,
down where the mortals scrap and grind.

Take my hand, the star bridge awaits -
don't be afraid, I will find you there
when fate rings its chime,
before Brunnhilde takes the stage.

Take my hand, the star bridge awaits -
remember my hand,
remember what it feels like,
fingers closing tightly around yours

Take my hand, the star bridge awaits -
you must not forget me,
you must recognize me in the crowd,
don't abandon me
when we are down
where the mortals scrap and grind.

two separate things

Cycling through sleep and waking
is the analogue of night and day,
but it is always night on this journey,
night or day.

Sometimes I dream of you,
or dream of someone else
here in the night or day,
between planets, between suns.

I dream of someone else sharing my air.
I think I would be good at sharing my air,
and my water, too.

I would be good at sharing.

Better than I was,
when there was night
and day -
two separate things.

Immigrant Dreams

It is the height of summer
and another bouquet of basil
is clutched together on the cutting board.

When you pluck a leaf, the fragrance
engulfs you for a moment -
you are back in Sicily,
but this time you are not poor.

Tomatoes, engorged by recent rain
split their skins, not waiting for the knife.
The meaty fruit is the color of a sunrise
over the Mediterranean
on a cloudless morning.

The yellow squash and zucchini
are laying up in the dirt,
and it pleases you to imagine the box
you will carry into the church basement
with "FREE!" hand written on the side.

Gossamer dreams

What do you do with this?
morning memories of dreams

Gossamer wings like mosquitoes
that you cannot catch
and brush aside

cannot rid yourself of
even by trying to drown them in coffee.

two poems in Young Ravens Literary review

Young Ravens Literary review published my poems White Out and Falling Away.

http://www.youngravensliteraryreview.org/mark-bonica.html