Monday 3 October 2022

Four Poems by Michael La Bombarda




If poets were painters,

Or I should say,

If painters were poets,

There would be more poems

And more paintings,

But there would be less dedication,

Because poets are born poets

The moment they fall in love

With poetry and decide that’s

What they want to do in life,

And painters are born painters

The moment they fall in love

With painting and decide that’s

What they want to do in life.

And there is mix and match

And match and mix, but

I want to delineate clearly

The separate art forms for us,

So, let’s not mix apples with

Oranges, since each has its

Own striking colour, and its

Own sharp taste. I repeat:

One writes in colours;

One paints in sounds.

We are moved, shakened,

Teary, dumbfounded,

Astonished, and renewed

In a constant cornucopia

Pleasantly assailing our

Greedy desire for art

And more art. We brim

With ideas and feelings,

Overflow with intent.





As if you were the wake

Of a fast receding ocean liner,

My thoughts of you dissolve

Slowly after your leaving,

Breaking down into tiny atoms of forgetfulness

Swallowed in the all-devouring mouth

Of what once was memory and now

Is the nameless, incorporeal depths of ocean,

The dumping ground of all forsaken dreams,

Found in the lost worlds of my heart.





Lone cowboys on the grassy plains,

The leaf blowers canter on their sturdy legs,

Lassoing stray leaves away from the herd

Gathering them into piles, as if they were bales

Intended for fodder, or perhaps, mulch,

Though signs say “repurpose your scraps”

For necessary compost for other parks,

And an ominous injunction to squish

The lanternfly as its harmful to vegetation

Awakens the blood lust dormant in me.





Was the breeze on my backside

As I dallianced with a cheerleader

More rewarding than a buzzer beater

Drained at the end of the key?

No, it was the first poem,

The beginning of the chronicling of my life

Through image, sound, and feeling,

Which promised the light from the stars

And delivered a scrawny growing pine

On the underlip of a scary promontory,

A dry and apt commentary on my life.



Michael La Bombarda - is a poet and fiction writer. He is retired and lives in New York City. He has published in Publlic Illumination Magazine, Danse Macabre, Yellow Chair, Kiss My Poetry, Oddball Magazine, and First Literary Review East, and the Landmark, and has two books of poetry published, Steady Hands and A Lover’s Complaint, both with Chez Michel Press,his own press.



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