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Four poems by Amy Barone

A love supreme

He trudged upstairs to pray for days.
Descended in rapture, armed with a four-part suite.
John Coltrane’s saxophone blares “Acknowledgement.”
He chants to McCoy Tyner’s cues.
“Resolution” swings and screeches:
agape lives and matters.
Elvin Jones on timpani amplifies the faith.
In an Afro-Cuban beat, “Pursuance” embraces grace.

’Trane gives fellow travellers a bonus track:
poetry of gratitude played out in the notes of “Psalm.”
Sanctified sounds from the ’65 vinyl poured from windows
on spring nights in “The Haight.”
Plethora of gifts from a man and his horn.
Turning water into wine. Parched listeners sated.

Sacred rock

Pouty-mouthed figures with ribbony arms in majestic and languid poses
fill the rooms of Pace Gallery. Many recall the sharply-chiselled face
of Abraham Lincoln. Some wink, others hide eyes. I meet The Aristocrat,
Hades’ Head, and Cave Girl. Hallowed in precious white rock from Carrara,
where anarchy boomed in the 1800s and ex-convicts and fugitives worked the mines.
Dangerous work still. But marble thrives. Retracing Michelangelo’s steps,
an Irish artist travels to Pietrasanta at the foot of Tuscany’s Apuan Alps.
Builds trust with families whose artisan studios eschew machines.
Kevin Francis Gray sculpts from a prized resource that glitters in raw form.
Fashions his version of David.

Full moon over Cairns

Kangaroo dreams were shaking my sleep,
so I took the Muse Down Under.
My verse needed a shot of nature and colour,
my head craved a new sense of place.
Thoughts of tropical heat in early spring
and music-filled nights made four flights bearable.
Despite ugly rumour, the Great Barrier Reef breathes.
Residents in brilliant hues of green, orange and blue
circled our boat. Lone sea turtles surfed underwater.
Coral, dancing and still, spoke to us.
Far from shore, a whale waved hello.
Near dusk, a flock of fruit bats flew low as we strolled
from McGinty’s Pub. A tropical mist coated the indigo night.
Dark clouds floated below a black tattooed moon.
Immersed in shrill silence.
Cairns, like a calyx, growing thorns to keep us still.

A day without a woman

In my city of New York, women dressed in pink and red,
sporting caps and buttons with strong slogans,
called in sick and took to the streets to protest inequality.
They profess feminism, call for resistance, demand reproductive rights.
Across the pond in Hove, a friend honours the eightieth birthday
of her late mother, an educator, traveller and muse
whose quiet but resolute demeanour typifies an earlier generation.
She lives on in a precocious three-year-old granddaughter,
a son who runs the wing of a world-renowned art museum.
Her memory and courage sustain a daughter who cares
for an ailing father, as she steals time for a writing career
and workouts by the sea, now better prepared for all that lies ahead.

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Greg Murphy
September 11th, 2017
3:09 PM
Beautiful work. More please!

Bestrice O'Malleynonymous
August 31st, 2017
7:08 PM
Swashbuckle on! Your poems speak to me.

Beatrice O'Malleyonymous
August 31st, 2017
7:08 PM
Duende. When art reaches out and pulls one in. Yes!

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