(See main page for bio)
Index of poems:
- A Poet’s Commitment
- Crabgrass Reflections
- Don’t Whisper That Good Night *
- For You Will Light My Candle… Psalm 18:28 *
- Stardust Fading
- When Old Children Cry
- Winter: A Silent Symphony
I write poetry because: I want to know the flip side of purple, wade in a waterless creek, witness a sunrise at twilight, listen to hear the silence sing to me a new melody uttering verses not yet conceived. I write poetry: searching for peace amidst the quake, to see heaviness turn feathery-light– thrust by the breeze in uncharted directions, to find blood in stony hearts, buried in graveyards filled with hate and a loveless plight to end all that’s good and sacred in human life. I write poetry because: I long for that yellow rim of sunlight crowning the charcoal clouds that reign over tormented lives, existing behind steel bars of spiritual imprisonment. Cause I want to tear down the walls, and live in a straw-made hut, and invite the bad, bad wolf to huff and puff, and blow it down, and set me free, fences are gone, so come and get me unworthy one, and catch this feather in weightless flight! I write poetry because: I breathe the scent of spring in a winter’s moonless night, cause I see beauty in the thorn, and tears become smiles, when the child in me fiddles with notions unreal and wild. Cause I can’t stop the search, cause I know purple, as does the coin, has a brighter side, and so, in endless search, I write on.
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Crabgrass Reflections
© Carmen Ruggero 2003 & 2004
My socks will do, can’t find my shoes, somewhere… some… I’ll have a coffee, where’s the pot… close that window block out the traffic… where are they all going on a Sunday morn…? One filter left, better make a full… probably church… I should… ten cups will do… thought about you yesterday, our conversation…. I’m out of sugar… must go to the store… now here’s my right shoe… can’t talk to you any more… so where’s my left? our thoughts meet crabwise… how can we ever agree? last time I looked I had two feet…Back to top
Don’t Whisper That Good Night *
© Carmen Ruggero
Don’t you dare just fade out of sight! An ambiguous exit is not your style. Proud, indomitable, your mind unbent by persuasion of any kind; inflexible, cruel -- kind at times, yet always your own; never afraid to speak aloud. Don’t you dare just fade away: To walk from light to misty gray, looking right through me as if I were glass; denying my presence, rejecting my touch. Crimson the rage that burns my spirit! You should have the nerve to turn your back. You’ve concealed you passion well, and now you, who gave me breath, your own blood – my blood, my life, gut my shell with honed indifference, oh, no! you will not melt as ice! We’ve differences to settle. Words you’ve spoken cut through my heart; replies hang from my tongue – halted by your stabbing stare. You wouldn’t have listened had I spoken then. You need to hear me now, before the night falls, quickly, please hear the verses from this frail heart. I’m not vapor. I’m not air. I’m not glass. Like substance flows through your vessel as it does through mine; see the likeness in our spirit, see me first, then face the light, and claim your peace. Stand up and shout your final goodbye: Don't you whisper that good night! * “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas
For You Will Light My Candle… Psalm 18:28 *
© Carmen Ruggero 2004
Spenserian Sonnet And when despair, like a dark prophecy thrusts hard blows and heavy winds through my soul; invades my mind with evil poesy, and rhymes brimmed with sorrows as black as coal, will it be You whom my tongue shall extol? I sometimes fear I lack Daniel’s vision. I doubt; doubt! I am burdened by the toll but the light he saw, I can’t envision. Christians mock me with righteous derision; I struggle to lift my voice in prayer to let Daniel’s words strike with precision. He saw You fly upon the wings of air, but should dark sorrow set my heart aflame, I wonder Father: will I call Your name? * David’s Song: Psalm 18:28
Stardust Fading
© Carmen Ruggero 2004
Whatever made me think… I don’t know, was I even thinking? thinking… The night, fresh, young as the dreams the dreams… he had like verses… verses… freshly spoken not yet touched by the new day… new day.. let’s dance, you said, follow my steps steps… steps… and I followed in semidarkness we danced… danced… to Hoagy’s tune we’ll have a whiskey you said, and I was thirsty… I was thirsty… what was I thinking… thinking… I wonder… as I see the door close behind you… behind you… and all that echoes is my mind… my mind… is a memory… of us and a dream and that night… vanishing like stardust… stardust… fading… fading…
When Old Children Cry
© Carmen Ruggero
A child’s whimper goes unheard, as shadows tarnish her innocence… … and heaven never looked so dark as it does right now under the bright September sun, when summer flows into autumn’s gold and like feathered strokes of burning embers spatter in shades of amber across the sky, and all I need’s a glimpse of a smile, to stop for a while this old whimper inside, and the chance to forgive and let go right now, before winter comes. But heaven never looked so dark despite September’s endeavor to shine, as it does this day, as I look at you and foolishly… still hope… …and the child cries in the dark, her heart heavy with gloom… …cause I’ve struggled to break through this darkness from the day I came into the light, our lives still entwined… your blood, my blood, umbilical cord not yet severed, and your mind wavered, away from me when you gazed into my newborn eyes and I wonder what was in them, so hideous to your sight that you should want to kill my essence, that you should now look at baby tears welling, still, in my old and tired eyes, and ignore the supplication of these empty infant arms stretching; reaching to touch and be touched, every time I look at you and foolishly… hope… …and her wrinkled hand wipes infant tears from her eyes… so close to winter… she cries.
Winter: A Silent Symphony
© Carmen Ruggero 2004
Autumn leaves flip and flutter in the wind, weaving as they do, a grim winter’s tale; the yarn unravels swifter than its spin a story of days growing cold and pale. I watch the plot unfold in shades of gold but its music and verse I strain to hear. Autumn’s lips mime a muted song: I’m old. It mourns the self I’ve barred behind my fear, where from this prison watch the time go by, hear the playwright’s words when the music plays on the other side of silence, I cry for time ill spent, my future marked by days. How I hope to steal one last glimpse of spring! But summer’s spent, fall yields to winter’s sting.
