July 2018
John L. Stanizzi
jnc4251@aol.com
jnc4251@aol.com
NOTE: These fifty-word pieces are from a manuscript-in-progress called Four Bits -- Fifty 50 Word Pieces. There is no real rhyme nor reason for the project beyond my thinking it might be fun to work within such a strict parameter. The book is called Four Bits because -- well -- if 25 cents is two-bits, then 50 cents must be four bits. Hence the title. The next logical step for me was to separate the book into two sections, each section containing 25 pieces -- one section called Heads and the other called Tails. When I had written twenty or so pieces, I noticed some were rather autobiographical, while others were more "nature oriented." So.....the autobiographical ones comprise the Heads section, the nature ones make up the Tails section. And there you have it. Four Bits -- Fifty 50 Word Pieces. I hope it will be ready to publish by Christmas.
SILENT DAWN
Some mornings birdsong is broadcast like notes in the dark. Every one invoking light. Barred owls’ simian barks. The blue of the heron, symphonic as she awaits the least stir. The frogs’ grunts thunk.
But this morning the only sound is the sound the dark makes when it is alone.
LAYERS – RAIN, FEATHER, POND
Drops of rain, spherical as mercury, on the underside of a white feather floating on the pond, the feather’s gray border magnified where rain has fallen, a tiny prismatic constellation, light on the galaxy of the pond. Here is where we live. Where we take form and learn to fly.
BEFORE RAIN, BEFORE DAWN
Dawn dark sparkles with cardinals, catbirds, goldfinches, a smattering of cheers, cheers, here, right here! And tree frogs have perfected bird song too, trilling in the dark.
And above and through it, the polyphonic advertisement of bullfrogs letting us all know the rain is closing in, it’s time for love.
FLINT
Outside town the cleft rested, small stationary arroyo, dried up pinhole too tiny for butterflies to roost.
The villagers beaten down by Christ or images of love lost or never found, become silly when water is smuggled in, ash before it’s poured, the destitute filling their cups with foolish lies.
SILENT DAWN
Some mornings birdsong is broadcast like notes in the dark. Every one invoking light. Barred owls’ simian barks. The blue of the heron, symphonic as she awaits the least stir. The frogs’ grunts thunk.
But this morning the only sound is the sound the dark makes when it is alone.
LAYERS – RAIN, FEATHER, POND
Drops of rain, spherical as mercury, on the underside of a white feather floating on the pond, the feather’s gray border magnified where rain has fallen, a tiny prismatic constellation, light on the galaxy of the pond. Here is where we live. Where we take form and learn to fly.
BEFORE RAIN, BEFORE DAWN
Dawn dark sparkles with cardinals, catbirds, goldfinches, a smattering of cheers, cheers, here, right here! And tree frogs have perfected bird song too, trilling in the dark.
And above and through it, the polyphonic advertisement of bullfrogs letting us all know the rain is closing in, it’s time for love.
FLINT
Outside town the cleft rested, small stationary arroyo, dried up pinhole too tiny for butterflies to roost.
The villagers beaten down by Christ or images of love lost or never found, become silly when water is smuggled in, ash before it’s poured, the destitute filling their cups with foolish lies.
©2018 John L. Stanizzi
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