Stephen J. Campellone

 

 

 

Dry Buoy

It never tasted seawater
Never saw an ocean wave
Crafted of plastic and alloy
Waiting for its day in the sun
Those five minutes of fame
When sailors see its flash and glare
And wet and gentle thighs
Buoy not knowing storms
Nor shaking waterways
The shipping lanes lacking signs
Or familiar shadowed shade
Not a drop of water to douse buoy’s thirst
Only the chatter of mermaids
Perched on rock-like bones
Floats in the distance
They wish for the myth
Of an ocean riding beacon
Splashed with a saline solution
One that never dries
The buoy to never dry





The other Adam

If the low hanging fruit were forbidden
And no one picked it
Would variety’s dance still makes toes tap
And eyes widen
Would we still see splitting
In fruit’s flesh, moist
Delivering seed for the following
Generation only some make
Others wither, dry, and blow away
On the eve of history
Ample time for atom smashing
Some may see precise germination
If no one picks that hanging fruit
And eyes those low branches
Swaying with breaths and devil-may-care
Abandon to break ground yet again




 

Lull in a storm

 

In the slowness of snow,

I watched the dead say hello

To the passerby of ancient pine trees

Not bristlecone

But another species unknown

To my memory of winter trees non-deciduous

Something grown from the snow’s dust

And I heard the corpses’ collapsing footprints

Musty bare feet, now iced and numb,

Making tremendous trails in the snow dunes

 

In the lowness of night,

I saw the living walk heavy

With the mastery of a new snow breeze

Not cold enough

But like a mother frozen

To my dreams of spring seas non-chilling

Something thrown from the night’s trust

And I spoke with the people’s distracting voices

Lusty zero lips, now tall and dumb,

Making tenuous gales in the snow’s tunes





Small talk

Making words, sentences
Conveying mind, matter
Like a confection without a price tag
Save that thought
Hold a breath
Production-mounted search
For Earth’s womb
Where insects nest,
Hide, finally bloom
Like seeds waiting out the winter
We chose those words,
Paragraphs designing
Rhyme, chatter
Like an inflection with
A nice ride
Ahead


Copyright
© 2011 Stephen Campellone

 

 


Stephen J. Campellone was born and raised in Philadelphia PA, lived some time in Arizona, studied educational psychology in graduate school. He currently works at an alternative high school in Philadelphia. He is involved with a few writers’ groups in Montgomery County PA where he lives and writes.