Quills – a poem (in process)

The day we discovered prickly
grass next to the three pine trees,
we walked back and forth across it for hours
quacking that the soft grass
was much better. But we laughed at the surprise
of stiff brown stalks stabbing
like porcupine quills
at our tender feet.

When I was sixteen, I skipped school
in September. I climbed the bridge
on the road to Avalon.
The sun had begun to set
behind me when I jumped

off. Later, at a party, I told it to a girl I loved
who let me put my hand down her pants and bit me
at the end of each soft-lipped kiss.

Copyright 2011, Michael Lamanna

Jackhammer – a poem (in process)

He thinks the asphalt boils
a hard and fragmenting birth
like skin bursting under machine-gun fire.

He might have been a soldier,
they say for glory, blessed
or magnified.

His body trembles sometimes
at night and sweats while he sleeps.
He works hard,

his wife confides,
but he tears at my skin
when we’re alone. She exposes

his marks on her arms and chest -
shame and pride approved
by her mother’s round and quilted gasps.

Copyright 2011, Michael Lamanna

Long Gallows – a poem (in process)

A shallow breath,
just enough wind to lift
the drowsy howls and skirts,

the fits of winter cough
and browning embers’ glow,
not even that

gets past the fallow
faced first
without a punishing debt

the eager heart owes.
These are the liars, charged,
caught in the dark or on the run.

Even the old are callow performers
of ritual vice, would be gluttons
trading feast for taste.

But the first is a beast that rides
on their backs when they rise
from the dream and look

west, always
preserving the East as a home
and the long gallows of dawn.

Copyright 2011, Michael Lamanna

Dying for Another II – a poem

(This is an example of how changing just two little letters has the power to alter the entire sense and meaning of a poem. Scroll down the page or click here to find the original “Dying for Another.”)

She hides behind a pillow
away from prying eyes
“Why are eyes always prying?”
she laughs.

Her laughter crackles torrential
like cedar in a flame
dying for another.

Copyright 2011, Michael Lamanna

Monika’s Shell – a photograph

Copyright 2010, Michael Lamanna

Prints and greeting cards of “Monika’s Shell” can be purchased by clicking Here.

Poet’s Confession #6 – a poem (in process)

Because I feared
     the ability might be lost
     to find meaning in empty spaces,

sincere and diligent
     I, the coward,
     tried to fill the holes in every one

of the lines.
     Every metaphor explained.
     Every simile interpolated, then extrapolated.

Every mystery unwound, unbound,
     solved.
     Only empty space now, without meaning.

Copyright 2010, Michael Lamanna

The Fox and the Crow Revisited (Sadomasochism in New York City)

Forgive my musical clumsiness.

The Fox and the Crow Revisited (Sadomasochism in New York City) – a song

His stock is up, your stock is down
down in the Bowery, prowling around
for some masochist who’ll let him take what he needs
expensive food, expensive wine
a painted lady and vacant eyes
that’s the trap he sets for your loneliness and greed.

I’m not saying it was all your fault
but you shouldn’t wave back if you don’t want to fall off

Sela, listen to me
leave that sadomasochism in New York City

Two Russian women in my dressing room
ivory skin and breasts like the moon
I never even heard them say their names.
Skipped my dinner reservations with a fallen queen
prayed for salvation on my hands and knees
but the bible and the sceptre never feel the same.

Take what you want, I already know I lost
loving you has come at such a high cost

Sela, listen to me
Leave that sadomasochism in New York City

You used to think you were real hot shit
now you’re burning in that fire pit
all the diamonds in your hands were just vanity.
Losing ground and losing faith
fading fast at the end of the day
waved your heart at a one armed lover in a tree.

I’m not saying it was all your fault
he shouldn’t wave back if he doesn’t want to fall off

Sela, listen to me
leave that sadomasochism in New York City

Copyright 2010, Michael Lamanna

Marilyn

This is my first attempt at recording one of my songs (thank you Garageband).

Marilyn – a song

The sidewalk’s happy to kiss your feet.
Barstools are fighting to be your seat.
There’s a window pane that loves to watch you walk away.
And the wind caresses your tongue with every word you say.

This little town shakes with your hips.
And the neon lights are jealous of your lips.
And all the men are trying to survive your eyes
long enough to lay between your thighs.

Acrobats are flying through the air
salty in their Summer underwear.
The bees all swarm around you like dogs in heat
all because your petals look so sweet.

Yesterday was a different kind of scene,
perfect and innocent and clean,
but today you’re on the cover of some gossip magazine
and everybody says you’re a bit obscene.

Copyright 2009, Michael Lamanna

Dying for Another – a poem

She hides behind a pillar
away from prying eyes
“Why are eyes always prying?”
she laughs.

Her laughter crackles torrential
like cedar in a flame
dying for another.

Copyright 2010, Michael Lamanna

Whiskey Down

Whiskey Down – a song

The rain keeps pouring down,
pouring down, pouring down,
just like whiskey down,
whiskey down, on the town.

Sister, you ain’t got the thunder
just a lonely hearted lover
break that whiskey spell you’re under
find some shelter and run for cover while

the rain keeps pouring down,
pouring down , pouring down,
just like whiskey down,
whiskey down on the town.

Girl, you can’t hide any longer
standing outside on that corner
and the storm is gettin’ stronger
just remember I tried to warn ya.

The rain keeps pouring down,
pouring down, pouring down,
just like whiskey down,
whiskey down on the town.

Instead of drinkin’ milk and honey
you’ve been thinkin’ ’bout his money
now the whiskey pulls you under and
all you can do is drown and wonder why

The rain came pouring down,
pouring down, pouring down,
just like whiskey down,
whiskey down on the town.

No, you can’t drink milk and honey
when you’re thinkin’ ’bout the money
now the whiskey pulls you under and
all you can do is drown and wonder why

The rain came pouring down,
pouring down, pouring down,
just like whiskey down,
whiskey down on the town.

Copyright 2010, Michael Lamanna

Matador – a painting

Copyright 2010, Michael Lamanna

Original painting, prints and greeting cards of “Matador” can be purchased by clicking Here.

Two Doves – a poem (in process)

In Winter wing
too high
tomorrows turn
Spring and dust.
Honest blooms
the fate of love
and lust.

Copyright 2009, Michael Lamanna

Pastel #1 – a painting

A few weeks ago I took a weekend workshop with an excellent pastel landscape artist and teacher named Stan Sperlak, www.stansperlak.com. I’ve never worked in pastel before and I’ve never painted landscapes before. I’ll post a few of the pieces I did during the workshop. Here is the first, which happens to be the last one I did on the last day of the workshop.

If you are thinking about doing any workshops, I highly recommend Stan. I don’t usually do workshops but I really enjoyed the experience and appreciated the level of his instruction.

Copyright 2009, Michael Lamanna

Trinity #5 – a poem

 

snow mutes                     a crescent

                      angels
               carve the night

 

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

A flower anomaly

I found this interesting phenomenon in my yard today.  It’s a black-eyed susan with petals that are round like little tubes.  Just thought I’d show them to you.

copyright 2009, Michael Lamanna

copyright 2009, Michael Lamanna

Trinity #4 – a poem

 

wind wags                          a branch

                      wings
            reach into the sky

 

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

Green Scarves – a painting

Copyright 2009, Michael Lamanna

I painted this for my sister as a wedding gift.

Congratulations Lucy and Janiah!

Breathe, Become – a poem

remembering, I am
  gold
     and green
folding fields
  long
     subtle
silver hills
  round
     azure
pond and sky

 

I stray
    grazing
    glorious
grass. Sway
    drifting
    effortless
cloud

 

remember, I am
  cow
     like Sun
massive, stubborn
  breath
     like breeze
warm, growing
  heart
     like grass
alive, golden

 

I stall
    breathing
    becoming
ripe. Fall
    passing
    remember
I am.

 

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

Trinity #3 – a poem

 

wave offers                               a limb

                        sacrifice
               rolled onto the sand

 

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

Sea of Galilee – a painting

Copyright 2009, Michael Lamanna

Original painting, prints and greeting cards of “Sea of Galilee” can be purchased by clicking Here.

Opaque – a poem (in process)

brick

wall outside window

transparent reflections

super-imposed

over a red grid,

my lover in the early Spring.



Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

Trinity #2 – a poem

 

time fades                                    a prayer

                     resurrection
             becomes the landscape

 

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

per-f/u-me – a poem

                                          per
                                          f/u
                                          me

                                         dirty
                                     t h i n g s
                                   like crumbs
                                 in a crotch or
                            soggy crackers in a
                         urination chamber: no
                    accountability, air toxic with
                lies. her pitcher, her ripe clay pot
            I taste                          per              warm
         mud on my lips.    toes,           fu             
        red grapes, unpressed,                       me
       unwashed.                swollen, she              
       obliterates                                        a tear- 
        shaped vial                             cra             
          empty     me        on the flo          cks
            mories                     or.          gutter-mud  
              insulation,                 smear on   
                every part of me.              a ghost:
                                                              cheap perfume
                                                                  spilled on the carpet
                                                                       soaks my tongue in gin,
makes it thick and white, a burden like the prostitute’s broken ewer.

 

Copyright 2007, Michael Lamanna

Trinity #1 – a poem

 

man touches                            a moth

                          thief
               guided by the moon

 

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

For Coffeegirl – a poem (in process)

Cape May is like a pillow
days when sunlight settles down, easy
humid, almost hazy air
sounds
drift away,

even

waves
of tourists
pass on Perry

Street. Thoughts sift.
Re-lease Summer-
green leaves,
patient dreams, sleeveless
shirts and bikini strings.

Down on Perry Street
sunflowers
try to grow in

sand-beds
and her hands
work the earth
surprised by the easy sound
of Summer sighs,
brown skin, sunlight
in her eyes and cool,
salty sheets and waves
gliding around
her thighs.

Copyright 2009, Michael Lamanna

On the Last Day – a poem (in process)

“Not much of a sun-

     rise today.” – she says the sky is dark; cautious

gulls and pipers

     run

  from

     thinning lips

contagious autumn houses, vacant driveways, wings gathering

 

songs from the north

waves high upon the sand

     yawn

  and

     stretch

gleen mysterious eddies

 

and gorge

     in her bed

like the horizon

     wind

fingers

     the feathers of her breast.

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

Twenty-Five – a poem (in process)

Early morning

     ghost

illusive glow,

 

pallid mist,

     unyielding mirror:  my

heart and foot -

 

steps double,

     tip the floor now

fore, now aft.  Swollen

 

crests and minutes peak

     and sink;

full chest

 

of jewels;

     a treasure

set adrift

 

for burial. Waves

     rise up; the Sun reclaims

the mist.

 

In fresh light and new

     we will be found

at sea.

 

copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

Just Like Us, Mating – a poem(in process)

Bare skin was a sign of strength, a fashion where fashion didn’t exist.  The word didn’t exist

“fashion”

the idea didn’t exist (fashion, fashion, fashion) still, they wore clothes – and undressed

 

Colors were important; they grew in the hair like feathers and changed with the seasons.  But their elbows were wrinkled

just like ours

and their knees.  They were so, so alone, though they knew there were more of them than ever – and their eyes

 

like the sun, bound by laws of fusion, fission, physics and metaphysics 

 

were in-fluence, balance held in the subtle tug and sway of gravities.  Only gravity, gravity didn’t exist.  The word

“gravity”

the idea (gravity, gravity, gravity) still, their feet stayed on the ground – and their bodies lay down.

 

In time they would learn to (fashion) lives full of (gravity) but in the mating season they were all naked and brightly plumed - just like us.

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

Where the High Dunes Dip – a poem

Where the high dunes dip

     hidden waves

     crest and foam

            sheets drift

     and pearl skin, asleep

     rises fresh from the sea.

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

regrets

Just had my first experience with blog regret.

I was lying in bed, trying in vain to go to sleep and it occurred to me that I wasn’t happy with some of the things I had posted here in the Garden.  So I got out of bed and deleted them. 

It’s not that they were incorrect, it’s that they were ugly. 

I remember a quote from Dag Hammarskjold’s Markings, it went like this, “He who wants to keep his garden tidy doesn’t reserve a plot for weeds.”

words to live by here in the Full Sun Garden.

Winter Will Be – a poem

Silent

     like Charlie Chaplin;

a dune mouse

     dance

in and out of tar-

     stained bulkheads.

Long grass,

     brown,

dry and split;

 

the Tramp

     skittering high

up a sandy drift, to the wind-

     spun thrift and ridge;

a soaring oracle prat-

     fall,

a golden game.

 

Thin round ears,

     the Eastern shore,

the coming year,

     all part of the silver screen.

 ”Winter will be new

     coat,

new hat, new shoes, somewhere warm

     to sleep,

and a blind flower girl

     ’til Spring.”

 

Copyright 2008, Michael Lamanna

I am Here . . . Writer’s Heaven

Prints and greeting cards of these photographs and other artwork by Michael Lamanna can be purchased by clicking Here.
For those who don’t know the place, the East Coast of the United States is lined with little beach towns that have been built into small cities over the last thirty or forty years.  In the Summer months these towns are jam-packed with beach-going families, college students on break and foreigners who come to work in the restaurants and other resort attractions.  In Winter, the tourists disappear and the locals are left with empty streets, hibernating businesses and the achingly cold wind blowing in across the beautiful ocean. 

You can find cheap apartments in these towns during the cold months.  I currently rent a hotel room with an amazing view of the beach and ocean.  It’s an excellent place to dream.

In the morning I play Orpheus.  I sit on the window seat and strum my guitar, lifting the Sun out of the ocean with a song.  Eurydice speaks louder than memories and my desk is only a few steps away.  Work is easy here.

When I need a break from writing I lie down on my bed and watch the ocean.  From the right angle I can make the buildings around me disappear and imagine I’m in a cabin out at sea.  From another angle I can see just the rooftops of the buildings and I find myself in a Mediterranean village.

Sometimes I drift off, not quite to sleep but into a deep semi-somnolent trance and travel to realms beyond the imagination . . . deep, deep relaxation in the warm sunlight pouring through my windows.

And this is me, alone in a room, with silence interrupted occasionally by the distant sound of a hammer from one of the off-season construction crews. 

I am alone in a town full of closed businesses and darkened homes where I can walk for several blocks without seeing another person or a car.  Or, if the loneliness begins to overwhelm . . .

I can go down to the Surf Cafe for some conversation and to enjoy a good, cheap meal.  All this and the busy world of the rest of the country is only a ten minute drive away, in case I need a reminder or a job. 

Is it possible that this place exists or am I lying on a bed somewhere else dreaming it all?

Prints and greeting cards of these photographs and other artwork by Michael Lamanna can be purchased by clicking Here.