Lenny DellaRocca has had work in literary journals since 1980, including Nimrod, Poet Lore, Wisconsin Review, Negative Capability and Apalachee Quarterly. He founded South Florida's premiere poetry reading, The Electric Chair and Random Acts, a nonlinear performance troupe of interdisciplinary artists. He writes for a newspaper. He is 43, married and lives with his wife, Janet and two cats, Poopsie and Tiger, in Delray Beach, Florida.
The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Lenny DellaRocca and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.
Notes from My Mother
My mother is younger than I have ever seen her.
Her hair is the story of women
who have lived their entire lives without ever calling out.
A girl's leap into womanhood.
The day she met my father
she poured peroxide into a basin
to clean a wounded bird.
Her feet are the color of peach roses.
Talks with neighbors over the fence
while a warm breeze of Oxydol & perfume
stains quantum corners of my life.
I am digging a hole,
find a cat's skull, shake black earth from sockets.
The gaping face floods with sky.
This is the way to the other side of the world
the eyes say.
What is the philosophy of woodpeckers?
Morning never ends.
My mother's face in blazing white clothes,
her voice an airplane in clouds.
She tells me something I hear
forty years in the future.
Takes a stone,
weighs down a scrap of paper
on that long wooden table in the sun.
The one I stood on to fly.
The People Upstairs
I hear them upstairs laughing
They have just made love
or finished breakfast
He strides across the floor
weight & voice
opens four windows which
look out to morning
splashed across the trees
in a jumble of light & shade
She is in the kitchen running water
I can hear the hodgepodge
of bowls & spoons
slipping from her hands
Ensemble in a Train Yard
where there would be jazz in a black sky
something that breathes into a horn
a way to keep color spilling
a cage for the handbell choir
a rough girl with a penchant for film noir
long drink of flesh
that purple bow at the mound
tulips cognac a little Van Gogh at midnight
sex is a country where people hunt their own smell
a man's price for sympathy
chalk love in a blonde face
a red saxophone rage of wires
too ill-tempered for a girl's neat room
for a waitress in Deluth
who loves trombones & cunninlingus
I am disabled, and live in the Tampa Bay area of Sunny Florida. My poetry is nothing more than an expression of what I see. Trying to find a way through words to help others to see it too. Nothing deep, just simple everyday life as seen through words, and possibly the emotions that go with it.
The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Mike Ash and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.
I can "feel" the silence.
Unbroken but for the whispering swishhh of the gentle waves.
The thick salty presence of the early morning air is like a healing balm.
The grey haze slowly thinning as it has done since the dawn of time.
Quiet purples and blues slowly giving way to pastel oranges and yellows.
The ruffle of my hair comes with a kiss from the morning breeze upon my face.
The lingering silence of night slipping away is reflected in the rhythm of my mind.
The vying of the gulls in the gentle surf breaks the stillness of the moment.
Dawn is born,
its red orange face peeking through the fog of a distant ancient horizon.
The dreamy unsullied stillness with it's memory laden quiet shifts to capture the present.
Thin wisps of grey gauze in the heavens catch fire in the birthing of a new day's sun.
Glittering golden jewels scatter themselves across the increasing pulse of the sea.
The whispering waves are speaking louder to me now.
The sleepy quiet of the past giving way to the calmly insistent present.
The day cries forth its birth with light, sound, and a yearning vibrancy to its coming existence.
And yet my mind is ever drawn to the concealing silence waiting before the dawn.