A. A. Manzoni
I am a 28-year-old unpublished writer (of poetry, short stories, and film scripts) from Newfield, New Jersey. I recently completed my first book, a collection of short stories entitled From NJ to Hell; and I have now begun my second, a novel about the 'Jersey Devil' (a legendary creature said to inhabit the Pine Barrens of Southern New Jersey). Meanwhile, I am putting together 100 of my poems for an upcoming book, The Bipolar Guide to Poetry.
The flames inside build and build.
They construct a blistering furor of pain
Not emotional pain
(That is for another poem.)
The flames of fire tear away
at any and all supporting structures.
This building will have
to be condemned.
It is no immediate surprise
to the multitude of citizens
gathered round behind the
flashing lights and yellow coats
of the fire brigade.
this blaze would torch
half of the city.
And that's how I felt last night.
World-weary eyes gaze upon
the reflective devoid black screen
of another fried laptop.
It has happened again.
Another death in a long line
of constructed silicon conduits
for my word and my thoughts.
Good thing I backed up my files.
Morning at a Mental Hospital
Good morning, spherical ball of almost eternal flame
peeking over the trees on the horizon.
Your red glow burns itself into my retinas
and follows me around this page, fluttering and bobbing
and dodging my attempts to catch you with my hands.
Oh, morning sun, lead me to a better day,
perhaps a better one than yesterday.
It is seven o’clock in the morning, yes it is.
And normally I wouldn’t be writing this early
but I am still -- here --
and its either this
or watch saccharine music-videos
on the dayroom TV.
Oh, morning sun, lead me to a better way of life.
Some maniac just hauled off
and assaulted the German woman next to me.
I had to get Security but she just wouldn’t stop,
fists flying at flesh in a blind whirling fury
so sudden and intense it all seemed unreal.
Good morning to you too.
The Ten-Acre Forest
There is a small tract of forest
that runs along the edge of town–
a ten acre stretch of green
that was once the local dump.
At the southern borderline
there are the forgotten remnants
of the old ladder track
that once brought coal and metal
to the burgeoning borough.
Now in spots the trees have grown
so much so that between
the sleepers they have split,
bleeding creosote underneath
the rays of the sun
on especially hot days.
And the rails running parallel
have skewed up into
Their iron arms twisted
by gnarled roots.
They reach up toward the heavens.
Nearby the ground slopes down
and brings you to a wide semicircle
where you will find a brackish pond
with reeds that whisper in the wind.
A familiar shrill buzz emanates
in your head as an Asian tiger mosquito,
almost unnoticed lands on your earlobe.
There is movement up ahead.
Wide eyes meet yours as you climb down;
the round black eyes of eight deer
and four fawn, treading awkwardly
on their soft-tipped hooves
not yet hardened by life’s long journey.
The herd freezes.
Their eyes turn away
from yours as they
flee into the
protecting arms of
Spring is coming
Can you feel it?
It lies in wait on the horizon
The fields outside
Are almost ready
Spring is coming
Can you hear it?
The death rattle of the frozen winds
The spirit departs
At sixty-four degrees
Spring is coming
Can you see it?
The Canada geese alight in the fields
They arrive by the score
Discussing current events
Unknown to us
©2014 A. A. Manzoni