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Poetry || SubmissionsGlidersby Don Barbera Not since I was 10 years old in Germany Have I had this much delight in the air. Gliders, those beautiful soaring birds, riding the ridge uplifts, soaring silently on thermals, only a stripstream moves the slim craft, beneath me the verdant valley of the Verdigris Basin inches past my view, the erect canards slice through the blue with their white polymer tips. Drifting on thermals we gracefully spiral in a slow descent like a white feather in slow breeze settling to the ground. A gentle bump announces our arrival and once again I am on the ground but my heart and soul are still sailing the seas of the sky, searching for quite and contentment and until I soar again. My Job If a tear wet your eye or a quiver shook your throat, maybe I was there. If a smile creased your face and an old memory returned, then maybe I was there. Did you have a fantasy? Perhaps, your mouth began to water. Maybe, I was there. If your toes curled under and blood raced in your veins, Then, I was there. If your breathing was shallow and you were ready to fight, I could have been there. Did you hold your breath then let it go all at once? Did you get warm all over or did your skin turn cold? If any of it touched you that's how it's meant to be. My job is to paint pictures. My love is to make you feel me. Busted Standard porcelain soldiers stand silent sentinel to all. Stud horses gallop in gray stalls waiting for their riders to return. Appearances deceive those whose eyes wander without wiles. Camouflaged chameleons could be cops or just another California curiosity seeker. Eyeglasses follow all assuming the position and inspecting the ranks. Yellowed paper sticks to heels and stirs the dank cauldron's tiled yard draining urine to its rusted drain. Caution stays the voice. Fear freezes in place, but queer quarry unglues its tongue. Busted! In the Icy Depths In the icy depths I felt it die. Waves of iced emotion froze in crystals of thought. Icicles hung pointed, poised to put a frigid lance through warm expectation. Beneath a frozen canopy of ruthless wrath, the warmth faded as light into dark leaving nothing but frigid communication and iced emotion. Icebergs have replaced hearts, abhorrence supplants adoration, Shivering, passion faded slowly and finally passed into the frosty night, alone and cold. Where was this glacier hidden? Beneath a cool calculating smile? It collides with bare skin like a drop of ice water raising chill bumps on the soul. Cold. Colder than ice. Dead soul, dead heart, Eyes like tombstones. Dark Secret fertile loam of the earth new ruts upon the bough marking paths awaiting the blade of the plough. till the soil reverently bring natures fruit to grow lie in luxurious fields feel the string beneath the bow. harvest a crop of dark plants growing from the pregnant soil reap from strong ebony stalks flowing with soulful oil. each dark furrow cultivate pay the earth its debt irrigate the dusty mound keep the dark secret. Donald R. Barbera drops by Ariga's poetry zine every once in a while and even, on occasion, sends in some poems. You can write to him c/o Don.Barbera@usa.xerox.com Today's Situation
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