I would like some assistance from you all. I have heard there is away to have my fathers poetry run on some sore of “loop” He has thousands of pieces that he wrote and i was told there is a way I can have them posted on this blog. Anyone have ideas?
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All posts by Paul F. Lenzi
Thank you for all the condolences and well wishes. I don’t think my father truly knew the amount of people he was able to reach out to with his poetry. My family and I plan on keeping my fathers blog active with his poetry. Please bare with us as we try to figure it out how this all works. Thank you again.
Paul Lenzi Jr
It is with deep regret that I to have to announce the sudden passing of my father Paul Lenzi. He was the cornerstone of our family and will be missed dearly.
He began this blog as a creative outlet and as a way of sharing his poetry. He never imagined it would develop such a large following, and the overwhelming support he received from this community touched him deeply. On behalf of our entire family, thank you.
We are proud of the legacy of words he left behind.
“The Dark Night” by Alison Lawlor
dark night of the soul
long running beyond
the marked moments
cadenced by beats of
the clock of the heart
no orbit of planets
will influence time
in the war between
bodily pain and cruel
tortures of mind
it can last for a lifetime
perpetual violence
wracking raw flesh
and blood places
the sunless and airless
pink spaces where
life should find
sweet affirmation
where body and soul
should reach blissful
concordium
nonetheless here is the
permanent battle engaged
pitting forces of spirit
against vicious powers of pain
every moonrise occasions
another new skirmish
enlarging the conflict
a blooding of more and more
cognitive acres
mortality never more vivid
than now in this deadly
dark night of the soul
“Internal Conflict, Eternal Enemy” by Candace Fong
right brain left brain
crease to crease contest
intuition takes on logic
faith is the referee
From my book Bullets from Bones
“Womb” by karmic katha
in a world plagued
by too many words
and too little grace
poetry is inevitable
“Indifference, Year of Peril, 1944” by Thomas Hart Benton
we are that species
who numbers cadavers
more wardead than
died-in-their-sleep
since antiquity more
bloody years rent with
combat or suffering
siege than at peace
knowing war begets
war we make beautiful
bullets from bones
to recycle their valor
reconstitute sacrifice
crumbled in graves
of both soldiers and
citizens lost in the
billows of battle-fog
all of which pale against
whole populations
entire generations
erased by the wickedly
punishing sword
flame or slavemaker’s
brandiron victory often
takes into its hands
asserting its dubious
rights of immoral
barbaric revenge
oh the genocides
staining each century
back through prehistory
utter depravity
strangling humanity
with our pretensions
to power that mock
the theology vested
in principled ethics of
jus bellum iustum
we know the right
thing yet continue
continue continue
to do what we know
to be wrong leaving
open for all our black
bloodied millennia
questions of whether
or not our apparent
intractable flaws
are perfectible
From my books Bullets from Bones and Legacies (vol. 1)
Double Crested Cormorant by Audubon
a cormorant settles
the swell of my chest
lunar tides ebb and flow
beneath rice paper skin
its blue disc of an eye
tracks anonymous prey
lurking somewhere
within fleshy oceans
vague shadows that dart
near the surface elicit
its quarter note calls
before plunging its beak
into tumbledown tissues
diving the chasm where
once beat a heart at the
precipice gone now to
swallowing depths out
of sight sunk in endless
black swirls ever down
into bottomless madness
From my books Bohemian Scents and Legacies (vol. 1)
“Dome, Kiev” by Anna Sokol
writhe at the unseen lingering touch
by Chernobyl fingers of Soviet hands
draw deep cleansing breaths
exhale liberty
over these broad ancient steppes
where the ancestral horse
was first tamed to the bit
and the burden of riders
where breadbasket wheat
sways in capital waves
over savory oilfields catering
menus of sham independence
it’s time for that spirited bloodline
those fiercely proud Carpatho-Rusyns
to rise from repression and
once and for all
plunge the dagger of freedom
right up to its self-declared hilt
in the slavering red hearted bear
*******************************************
(Originally written February, 2014 upon Russia’s invasion of Ukrainian Crimea)
From my book Bullets from Bones
Image by grimarika
twirling her skirts
shapely flower stem legs
embarrass the snow
From my books Bohemian Scents and Riverthink
Poesy plus Polemics 