PHP Deprecated: Creation of dynamic property Joomla\Registry\Registry::$default is deprecated in /home/authorsinfo/public_html/libraries/vendor/joomla/registry/src/Registry.php on line 937
PHP Deprecated: Creation of dynamic property plgContentLayerslideshow::$context is deprecated in /home/authorsinfo/public_html/plugins/content/layerslideshow/layerslideshow.php on line 38THE CART: THE ROAD UNDER SNOW IN HONFLEUR Painting by Claude Monet, 1865; Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994 The road under snow we ought best not to complain about! Yet we do so every winter, don't we? You say the jostling ride hurts your back or the old horse is too slow or that I see so poorly I cannot avoid the rocks jutting in our path.   As for

BIG JOE HAMMER DR0VE THIS CAR BUT THE HAT HE WORE ON HIS HEAD Yuh want my real name or duh one duh guys gimme back on Grand Street when I wuz twelve or doiteen? My mudder give me names long as yuh arm! "Where dja dig 'em up?" I used  tuh tease de ol‘ lady.. Back in a Ol' Country––Sicily––dey han’ out names  like candy: da more da sweeta.   Dey name

    Painting by Auguste Renoir, 1876     Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994 This is not the veil I had hoped to wear. You can take that for the God-honest truth! This one is black; the other was white. This is today: a time for mourning. That was long ago. How do you explain a life? Mine, that is. One summer the earth revolved  around the two of us. W

STEMS OF WHITE PEONIES AND PRUNING SHEARS Painting by Edouard Manet (1864) Poem by Salvatore Buttaci (1994)   We play the game sometimes of divining the alter egos of your garden flowers: What they resembled on their tall green stems, what they might have been if only they could have decided for themselves in the pre-garden before they were seeds,

                                   BERTHE MORISOT                      Painting by Edouard Manet (1873)                      Poem by Salvatore Buttaci  (1994) "Too  much yellow!" I tell the painter. "You've made me out to appear  some pasty-looking, half-dead matron who has never seen the sun! Devotees of art one day  will stand before this canvas

(c) 2011 by Oana    For years now my unborn son has followed me I don’t need to see him I know he is there He just shows up Been trying to explain to myself and to him certain things He never wants to listen He covers his ears He ignores me He follows me in the most unexpected places Hugging my pillows, hiding behind me when I go on dates Dismissin

' YOUNG GIRL BATHING: Painting by Auguste Renoir (1890) Poem by Salvatore Buttaci (1994) Not a stitch!   Oh, if ma mere and mon pere could see me now! Their little daughter naked as the day she first saw the light. Let me say Pa Pa would put enough of his belt to me that no artist would ever care to paint me again.   I should tell you I am not a mo

                          A BOWL OF PLUMS             Painting by Jean-Baptiste Simeon Chardin, 1728;                    Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994     Clarisse was not at the market this morning. What made me think she would be? How many mornings have I walked the dog, battled with him at the leash  because it was not his usual route, a neigh

                     THE IRONING LADIES (LES REPASSEUSES)   Painting by Edgar Degas, 1884. Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994. "I have had my fill, I tell you! This morning I could have slept at least till noon but Claude up early before the geese, raged in another of his foul-mouthed moods, not finding this or that, blaming me-- Can you imagine, Jean

THE BALCONY (LE BALCON) BY EDOUARD MANET (1869) Whenever I look at a famous painting, I often wonder what the model was thinking about as he or she tried hard to maintain the pose given by the painter. Pressing concerns? Daily problems? Love gone sour? New-found love? And in a still life who owns the dish of fruit, the bouquet of flowers, the wine

        You can't see it, but there's a silencer at the end of her pistol.  Does Your Gun Need a Silencer If You Plan to Kill a Mime?   who can hear in the forest who cares if the tree falls there   on the city concrete  the mime bobbing  like a stringless marionette acts out a wordless life    heart beating without sound hands and face dotted with

THE WOMAN IN GLOVES (LA FEMME AUX GANTS) by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1891)   What is going through the mind of the woman in gloves? What is she thinking about the man she loved, the man who abandoned her?  THE WOMAN IN GLOVES I have not  blinked an eyesince his train left Paris!Outside the compartment windowthis moment finds him, I'm sure,staring

Do me a favorDon't question My ability to do things my wayI've  Learned from my mistakes Not even if you've been thereTry walking a mile in my shoesYou probably wont be ableTo deal with what I do Mind your own businessI wont ask you againKeep your noseOut my life and be on your way  Let me be, free I'll do what I pleaseI take care of myselfNever ne

Dear Daddy, As you may have already guessed, somebody said something to me that made me sit back and reflect. They said I worshipped you. Made you seem like a better man than you really were. That hurt my soul. That hurt my heart. Ultimately I am a daddy’s little girl. But I would like to think that through my writing I show nothing but complete ho

“You see world, you’re no good/No matter how I hate flashbacks and rewinds/Can’t escape the pain that be trapped in my mind/Now you see world, you’re no good.”—J. Cole “See World” They were true innocents—bright futures and long lives ahead of them. Sadly, cut short by the evils of this world. And what makes me sad is that they never had a chance t

Yes, my body still craves you But there are those other women …                                                                                 I know I will not fall in love.

Softly your hands move over my body Softly your thoughts move over my soul Harshly and mercilessly your body crushes the physical Me Harshly and mercilessly your thoughts crush the immaterial Me There is blood. And also lots of pleasure The more blood, the more and deeper the pleasure The more brutality, the more and deeper the realness The more te

I hear you passed through town Spent a few days here The calls didn’t go through, I know The flowers you planted last year for me Cried. © 2011 by Oana