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3 poems

by Nicholas F. Accovelli

The Poet Medium

the spellbound abide 

two places drawn out 

a purpose I mind for each 

which one for the stone 

which one to breathe 

spare me that din 

this bluff whispers on 

a peace in between 

below me 

the birds 

behind me 

the trees 

On Days Less Painted

Canvas skies pour the rain 

silver in prostration 

painter lost his pallet 

breath flees from the lungs of the town 

yet our temple ground drinks alive and healthy 

not harassed by the daydream blue 

nor blasted by its fireball 

Ripe in perfection 

awakened they come 

blossomed by the gray 

the few 

whose lashes and pupils sway 

lazy stretch of fleshy tendrils


Peel dull wrappings off this box 

spy the Snowdrops head 

hung white-tender on weeping neck 

and pine to hush so delicate 

as you gaze it helpless 

a beauty 

Damn the Fountain of Youth

I, sharp-feathered sparrow, strut 

my ballos brushes fresh marble 

but to crack it takes crows feet 

I sing a whistle out to you 

a beckon in your wake 

with accent, though, you rudely hear 

juvenile lips slip and twist 

I’m cooing in agony 

still to you 

this dance for two 

strained south 

eternal migration 

lend me your fingers 


I cannot bear it 

does he love you––love you like I do? 

my strength in shambles 

my shedding of feathers 

though ripe cannot weather 

the storm to cry out your name 

to sail these steps 

glance, but don't say to me, 

“Dance in the fountain of youth.” 

many doves summer there 

how I scoff those spray-paint-pigeons. 

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