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                                                               The Literary Review
                                                                          Issue 8

Page 50

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In the Pocket

Pockets make life lighter.
They once wielded power, were taboo for dames.
But their true value springs from the groove.

When music empowers listeners to reach heights,
like the time Stanley Clarke and Lenny White jammed
at the Blue Note one breezy fall night, wrapped in swing.

Or that ‘87 Andy Summers show when I was surrounded
by “it” girls on and off stage at Philly’s Chestnut Cabaret.
Rosie Vela strutted her Texas stuff in red Botticelli curls
and sass, singing “Tonto” and “Magic Smile.”

The ballads oozed rhythm and blues. A short-haired
honey blonde in the crowd entertained a harem of hot men.
I snaffled these scenes for years. Out of pocket no more.

  Amy Barone__

__________

Getting to Blue


Like Japanese children, I summon
Baku to ward off nightmares.

Achieving blue requires labor and passion
that nocturnal reveries are zapping.

In Tai Leu, Laos, aging dyers toil long hours
to process indigo—fermenting leaves,
spinning cotton, dipping hands in vats of blue.

But the creature with his lion frame, elephant trunk,
and tiger paws, also devours happy dreams.

Making the route to bliss a challenge,
a lane lined with blockades and danger.

  Amy Barone__


Lunar Love

They say her hidden side is dark,
but it’s simply far. Locked in tidal swells,
she shows us the same face every night.

An asteroid passed close to earth
during the last supermoon
on the first day of spring.

She loomed high above the softened ground
where earthworms rose up to feed famished birds.
Selenophiles, we flaunt our love of the heavens.

No cure exists for our fixation.
A gold globe or yellow slice of sky.
The stars and moon stay true night after night.

Redemption arrives on cloud-filled days when she hides.
Or afternoons when her straying spirit burns bright.

  Amy Barone__

_____________
© Patricia Carragon: The Guardian
                          © Patricia Carragon: The Guardian





Petals

They’re watching me.
I relax; this is where
I’m meant to be.

Teaching a class,
reading poetry,
explaining why

and how I create.
Relating to students
in night school

middle school
from foreign lands
foreign streets

foreign beliefs.
But in the moment
we’re community.

Their intent faces
reveal trust;
we unearth chemistry.

My words the beacon
of this peace.

  Amy Barone__

__________

Blood Orange Days

It’s the beginning of spring.
Damp days and spirits echo winter.
Working remotely, I wait for the phone to ring.

Familiar noises have dimmed.
Neighbors on walks timidly greet or cross the street.
Trees are shrouded in white wisps.

The wind stopped whining.
A weathervane that hasn’t moved in days
shifts south.

Reports of illness and death pepper my Facebook feed.
I grieve with Giovanna, an Italian friend in Brooklyn,
who buried her father and uncle in Bergamo from afar.

Poets vittoria Ripetto and Bob Barci have passed on.
Little Italy butcher, Moe Albanese, shy of 96 years, is gone.
People crave communion.

In other cycles, yellow daffodils stand tall.
The perfume of violet hyacinths evokes
a calmer time in a bigger world
when travel meant weekends at the Jersey shore.

Pink blossoms on Japanese maples
and weeping willows color the town.
The sun’s shadow shelters leafless trees.
A sole ambulance siren slices the peace.

  Amy Barone__