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
gold-ring-wearer
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.