Poems by Antony Di Nardo and Christopher Black

Old Montreal, Image by Maria Elena Zuniga from Unsplash

Radio Classique Montreal by Antony Di Nardo

I’m out of sorts
I want to use the word penumbra
in a sentence
and then it happens
I was reading Brautigan all day yesterday
and Girl is the title of that Beatles’ song
I just remembered
and I remember too
bushels of apples
pecks of Muscatel
quarts of running out of milk
the cool dips and ponds
of dear Quebec
your back to me my back
to you
don’t have to be infected
to be affected
cranked out at seven
in the morning
the first radio words I hear
while thinking
I love your back
to mine

Image by Max Bender from Unsplash

Breaking by Antony Di Nardo

 the sky’s been a confederate gray ever since
morning got started
fat flakes of snow streaked across the beginnings
of another April and my shoes felt tight
what I was the day before has crumbled
and hides beneath the sheets
I forage for simple shafts of light and come up empty
I find my Inbox stuffed beyond a 100 more
than I care to read       cables split the sky in two
and by the sounds of it the wind strikes me as malevolent
while peepers peeping in a videoclip I open confine me
further to a memory of days that don’t count anymore
and strange thoughts of breaking free remind me
there is no music but the hum of repercussions

The Paris Cafe, Image by Dan Novac from Pixabay

Paris Interlude by Christopher Black

She sat quite alone at a sidewalk café,
on a street near the Seine and the Musee D’Orsay,
silver hair shining through the shadows of leaves,
trembling above her, caressed by the breeze,
loves past and lost years, were those tears in her eyes,
when softly she smiled, as one who soon cries,
then picked up her glass of red tinctured wine,
with an elegant hand I wished could touch mine,
and drank again memories of rebellions and art,
As we sat there united, at tables apart.

Jupiter, Image by Thomas Breher from Pixabay

Jupiter Rising by Christopher Black

To see Jupiter rising in a May evening sky,
an arcing bright light among shivering leaves
and early white blossoms of an old cherry tree,
caused me to think of my brief passage through time
as the rise and the fall of a lone shooting star,
a wanderer, from nowhere, whose gone in a flash,
while the planet, unchanged, moves still on its path,
and the leaves, from bright green, turn to autumnal gold,
then fall, and decay, yet with spring are reborn,
while the blaze that was me is now just smoke and dark dust.


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