Poetry

Untitled

by

Anna Marie Marzocca

The chimes,
They whisper empty promises
With each sway and collide of their metal vocals.
Each high pitched echo
A persistent attempt
At luring my attention.

The wind which feeds their spirit
Is peculiar today;
With more desperate attempts to
Swirl around me
And lift me to somewhere
Fearsome and new.
I will not follow.

I resist with ardor,
Yet curiously in waiting,
For some sign,
Some symbol,
To reveal itself.

Untitled

by

Anna Marie Marzocca

The cold wind blows.
The wind is frigid this time of year.
Cowardice forces us to shelter
From its ravenous and unraveling influence.
As I pause to rest from fighting this voracious, loathsome wind;
I look down.

I see you, random blade of Kelly-green grass;
Trying to hide amongst your fearless followers;
Superimposed on this canvas of dry, colorless,
Barren soil.

You stand erect and proud.
A scarce bounty of clover
Huddled together,
Admiring you at your feet,
Like teenagers in the
Front row of a rock concert,
Admiring its star.
You are a soldier amongst
The waning few.

You point to the sky.
Your direction is upward,
Your intentions are upright.
You are pompous and determined
To hold your ground.
I am jealous of your stature and resolve
Despite the abandonment of your fellows
Who have since seen their time.

The cold wind blows again, this way and that.
Oh! statuesque blade of grass,
You and your remaining few
Are succumbed to a frenetic dance
During this uncontrollable skirmish.
You are shifted from left to right with rapid,
Seizure-like motion,
Resembling electrical currents travelling though
The very heart of you.

I almost feel you tremble,
I see your shiver and shake,
Now I laugh to see you quake
And realize
That you are just like the rest of us…
Fragile.