October 2020
Bio Note: My newest book, called POND, should be out in October. It was one entire year in the making and then
another year-plus in the refining. I thought it might be fun to publish a few poems from nearly exactly one year ago as a
way of sort of comparing weather and wildlife and landscape.
The book was written like this — every single day (I never missed one day in a whole year — amazing to me!) I'd walk to our pond with my journal and my camera. I would jot some notes about the "demeanor" of the pond, and, if a photo opportunity arose, I took it. Then I'd come home and write an acrostic poem using the letter P, O, N, and D. The one other caveat I imposed on myself was that I could never use the same P, O, N, or D word more than once. That upped the challenge considerably. I will be most happy to see the book completed. It is being published in Ireland, by a lovely man named Steve Cawte and his little press which he calls "impspired." We've become good friend over this long haul.
The book was written like this — every single day (I never missed one day in a whole year — amazing to me!) I'd walk to our pond with my journal and my camera. I would jot some notes about the "demeanor" of the pond, and, if a photo opportunity arose, I took it. Then I'd come home and write an acrostic poem using the letter P, O, N, and D. The one other caveat I imposed on myself was that I could never use the same P, O, N, or D word more than once. That upped the challenge considerably. I will be most happy to see the book completed. It is being published in Ireland, by a lovely man named Steve Cawte and his little press which he calls "impspired." We've become good friend over this long haul.
POND Poem
9.8.19
11.01 a.m.
68 degrees
Perceptible movement of the slightest breeze wrinkles the pond
where the
operetta of small frogs becomes more quiet each day, the heron,
seeking the
nectar of small tasty amphibians, and the landscape commences
its departure, as the
devil’s beggarticks bloom odd and spectacular and in a strange
way, out of kilter.
POND Poem
9.9.19
10.13 a.m.
67 degrees
Pestle of years has ground away relentlessly, until the
office of time inevitably has its way. We lost Danny Jones today,
nefariously, to that coward ALS. This takes me down. Lifts me up, the
divinity of the simple, short walk to the pond made a glorious miracle.
POND Poem
9.11.19
10.58 a.m.
73 degrees
Plagued by this memory perhaps more than any other,
outcries in the streets, from the buildings. The only real silence comes from the
nightmare soaring down the sky, clothing snapping in a free form ballet,
descension, flight down to where the only thing reflected in the pond today
are burning buildings.
©2020 John Stanizzi
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the
author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual.
It is very important. -FF