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jacob erin-cilberto - 2


turning the page between

am i your autumn?
adding color to your life
but ephemeral in your affection
soon to be fallen love
ignited passion, an afterthought---
like illegal burning of leaves
in a district of emotion
 
where my heart would be arrested
before the first snowflake
of lost sentimentality
might hit the ground
 
                 with
frozen goodbyes
tossing me care   less         ly
 
into my winter?

Set in Motion

a Coney Island boy
riding a youthful Ferris wheel
seeing the bottom and the top all at once---
feeling the pinnacle of the world in a night breeze
but getting let out where the inner city ground
hits so hard,
the penniless travelers on a NY tributary
that bleeds into back alleys and side streets
of gold teeth, and pockets full of back seat sex
boosting egos for all of an hour

i looked out that five story window
at what my life could be
but was always too afraid of heights
to challenge the world,
and i always kept checking to make sure
the safety bar was in place
so i wouldn't fall out of my dreams
in case i ever did make it to the top
where fantasies would rock my will
trying to scare me into inertia

and i would teeter
between poverty and riches
feeling as close to that hour's honest ride
as some hooker who winked at my adolescence
when my dad made a wrong turn
and we ended up in a part of town
i wasn't meant to grow up in.


posing for a poetic portrait

the clever metaphor
went to work as usual
hoping for a wisp of genius
to procure a spot
with new contract
a raise in pay
and a chance for promotion
to a new poem

but went home that night
still riding the cliche train
pretentiously written off
as just another lame attempt
at applicable aptitude
by the uninspired poet
to advance without qualification
to a level suitable for framing

A Desk in London—1963

Sylvia Plath left some letters on the table
by the half-smoked cigarette,
by the off-the-hook phone
by the unused typewriter
by the picture of Ted
by the half-opened drawer
by the rest of the letters she found there
by the sweat that poured from her clammy hands
which then turned to fists of rage
which then turned to angry fingers
which then tore up the letters
by the half-smoked cigarette
by the off-the-hook phone
by the busy typewriter
as she wore her fingers to the poem's bone
emasculating Ted within lines of her wistful words
and quicksand sentiment
which settled her
which embattled her
which made her laugh till she cried
 
the echoes of which continued long after she died
and could be heard
at the table
by the half-smoked cigarette
by the off-the-hook phone
by the confused typewriter
by the preserved poem's bone
by the picture of Ted
 
with his eyes drawn shut
illegible through the broken glass
of a reality, Sylvia saw
all too clearly
as she inhaled her final thought.

Reality Show

you taught me how to tragedy---
i learned that spontaneous storms
and unexpected death of hearts
preempt love
as the screen of feelings
becomes enveloped in nothingness

and those trees left lying in the back yard
of our dreams
are the uprooted causes of the stripped bark
of existence
that leaves us vulnerable
to that which shows up on

no radar screen
but funnels itself deep within

you taught me how to tragedy
and now i am getting so good at it

i feel like Thor
in a room full of thunder
clapping at his misfortunes...

Kiss

leaning against the stone wall stoned on you
dizzy me curled into your caress
your scent like a soft arm within my sleeve

your hair brushing lightly against my bewildered lips
as i embrace the profusion of beloved confusion
trying to keep my balance.

a Line Under the Sun

sons of sons
of sons of fathers of fathers
of farther away lives
once a blip on a map
of genealogy, now a branch on a tree
of remembrance
and names following names following names
 
some remain the same as leaves of those lives
bud and bloom and turn and fall
 
as with all, there will be sons of sons of sons
reaching toward a sky the fathers once dreamed of
and inherited treasure
found on the map of fraternal love
 
a destination
always closer
than any father or son could ever imagine.



Picture
Picture

 
​ jacob erin-cilberto's profile
Go to page 3 of jacob erin-cilberto's poetry​

Lady's Choice

perpendicular to the monotony
a horizontal understanding replaces the boredom
with delusions of gargantuan proportion

we dance to the ennui
as a we
wondering why the music stopped so long ago

and why our feet keep moving to the memories
of when we laughed at the moronic thought
that we would ever find erosions of the smiles

and a lingering longing to replace the deejay
slip our feet into more comfortable shoes
untie the awkward pauses

that now elaborate our spinning sentences
with a finality

that no amount of periods could ever punctuate

Zoom Zoom

i was not going to write yet another poem
about writer's block,
but then, well
 
i heard a poem blocks away
revving its engine
so loud the window of my mind shook
in its loose frame
 
and then i heard the roar of it approaching
braced myself for the vision to go with the noise
and finally there it was, driving past my house
 
past my pen, past my thoughts
passed me
shifted gears, dropped a few words
in liquidated form from the tailpipe
 
revved again just to taunt me
then sped off down the block
to another block but kept me
in writer's block shock
shaking like my window
 
as i started typing
a poem about writer's block
on my block
still hearing that engine roaring
a block away
in the back of my mind.

the leaving

touch is lost in a distant moonlight
even as skin comes so close
to where we are
and where we want to go
 
but fingers move to make words
and longing kisses the rainbow
that will come after a rain
of missing you drenches the heart
 
goodbye is the culprit
that stirs in a dark yard
after headlights drift down many roads
towards a tomorrow
 
still trying to find its way
to come together
with yesterday.

forget dating services, just order at the counter

forget dating services, just order at the counter
I found my e--harmony honey
cheating on me with some match.com lover---
pounded the keys with my vengeful fist
broke the mirror that was my monitor
shattered a reflection showing 29 personality traits
that matched hers according to the web site

Now I'm down to 14 traits and a black eye
love sore knuckles trying to be compatible
with a new soul mate I met on "third time's a charm"

but after three emails, two phone calls
and a date at Denny's
thinking I'd hit a grand slam--
I am eating lunch alone
profiling the girl sitting next to me

about to ask her to share my fries
and meet me at first base.

my dream A.T.M.

i regret the nickel worth of thoughts i shared
as soon as i got my change
something registered,
you wanted someone different than me
 
i would always be
the guy with the weak money purse
the love that jingled in pockets
then leaked through the broken seam
 
and now you look for the guy with dollar bills in his eyes
and i turn green with envy
and a question of "whys"
for i am not worth the paper
i'm printed on
in your eyes or mine
 
if i had a dime
i would take the time to ripen
into bills for which you would hold out your hand
 
but i would have to beg God for quarters
to make myself shiny and new
 
and really, just for you?
it's not worth it.
 
i'd rather pawn my thoughts
and heart
elsewhere
and live happily poor of you.

Days in Re-Verse

there's a poet
used to cut a country breeze
in two
 
a way down Mississippi wanderer
wording a path of discrepancy
tumultuous life lined in verse
 
i still hear a faint voice
but she's moved on now
and something un-stated
 
says her poems
reside somewhere within a heart
that no longer holds a pen within its folds
 
but she is folded in my mind
and tucked in its drawer
safely winding down heaven's trail.

Records

turntable soldiers
at slow speed
fall to the vinyl battlefield floor
into the grooves of forgotten names
and the spinning world
plays its loathsome tune
 
as
turntable soldiers
never reach life's top 40
because they die at 18 and 19 and 20 something
with only their labels
left to signify expiration dates
 
and the BMI to imply
their short span of play.

Go to page 3 of jacob erin-cilberto's poetry
​

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