The Literary Review
Rose-like Tattoo
(For Dad)
I am Golgotha’s shadow, alive inside his shadow.
I am rose like, full bloom, resting inside skull’s vase.
His favorite: Four Roses, not water turned into wine.
I am sword’s flushed water and blood.
I am ruby’s bloom. His tattooed arms.
His purest essence suffering itself alive.
I am scarlet petals drinking fallen sunlight, bathed in milky moonlight.
I cannot clip away the thorns from his martyred crown.
Thorns pierce all minds.
I cannot untwist, twisted fate.
I am tired of absorbing all this vinegar-face-shame.
Everyone feels staked hands, staked feet.
I am Wilderness.
I am Venus, daughter of flames.
We are a climbing vine, entwined.
- Diane Sahms-Guarnieri
Although
Although the pair of cardinals have returned this late February day
Although the songs in hollow breasts have lifted us into another
approaching spring
Although the living room’s numerous white Valentine mums
generously offer praises of fragrances
Although we cannot hear stems slowly drinking in stilled waters
Although each clustered showy snowy bloom has a purple pocket
heart worn in the center
Although bundled in a glass vase their subtle presence
ultimately lovely in their aging of days
Although the nested years in my magnolia hair have silvered
Although the arm rests of your favorite blue chair are worn
- Diane Sahms-Guarnieri
Downy Woodpecker
During winter’s quiet sermon
of undressed trees,
he arrives like a prophet
with red flamed yarmulke—
this totem bird, who trusts
guidance of primordial spirits,
drums out naturalistic rhythms
drums out sacred earth’s
forgotten songs.
Northern winds lifting him.
- Diane Sahms-Guarnieri
Blues
For Lucy, my Yorkie (4/27/2008 – 3/31/2022)
I cannot unthink you.
Memories sharpen the knife of pain.
I feel insane inside the walls of sadness.
Inside the belly of the whale,
I’m swallowed down
drowning in this grief.
Wish you could revisit me in dreams.
Wish I could wake to the patter of your nails
tapping along wooden floorboards.
Wish your spirit could have climbed out
of the basket of your body’s deep sleep.
How I wished I could have awakened you.
Absence echoes.
I am a wave crashing onto a jetty,
caught in mist.
I am a lost kite sailing nowhere,
in and out
of this unwelcomed atmosphere.
- Diane Sahms-Guarnieri
Cricket
It’s early August
& there’s this soloist,
who has never stopped
playing his body’s blues,
tireless as Muddy Waters
on guitar. Remarkable
stamina: vocalized
persistence, as if
running an all-night
singing marathon
a calling song
into night’s open mic:
I Just Want to Make
Love to You,
Love to You.
- Diane Sahms-Guarnieri
Forget-me-not
is dead.
Without a trace.
It is late August
& in May & early June
they bloomed
miniature blossoms
of blues, prayers &
pagan chants.
Though not visible,
I whisper
their name & have
not forgotten.
- Diane Sahms-Guarnieri