a poetry e-zine










Poems By Francesca DeVito
You're Dangerous, Sweetheart

Content for the moment
We breathe in silence

This unique
Orange shading into the purple morning light
But it remains second
To this breathtaking view.

Of You.

And in your hand you hold a rose, so closely.
This rose that I have offered.

A glance speaks caution.

Your kiss shouts innocence.

Together our breathing dissipates.

I ask with fear, What will this become?

She hesitates.
Then answers in a general
And painfully simple way,
Does anyone ever know?

And then I drown into pessimism
Realizing that I do not know.
Will this stiff wall ever crumble?
I wonder and wait.
As this rose will dry
Her eyes will swell with tears.

One day I hope her mood will change shades,
As the sky.
And then,
I will be swallowed by her colors.

Lost Control

Have you lost your mind?
Boxes piled like complications
In a tight hallway,
Lifted away only by those authorized.

How long does it take?
To come around like the others.
Behind the boundary and
Beyond the line I cannot cross.
I wait,
But I am not authorized.

How much does it take?
To obtain the title.
To be treated worthy.
I swear I'm not
As you believe.

Spinning. Medicate the frenzy.
Numb. Dilate the mirage.

Have I lost my mind?

Ash Tray

Full of cigarettes.
Including remembrance of a time
When they had lived-
And were put out.
Now they lay to rest.
Some have burn marks
From the other inhabitants.
All in all they, at one time,
Had their moment to shine.
Some touched her lips more
Than others. Some were quick
And angry. Others were savored.

Do they remember their moment?
Their minute or so?
Glowing then fading?
These are the chosen ones who
Remain in her presence,
Not flicked on the road
At Some distant location.
Those were finished before
They started. Never to be seen again
Or to share a space with her.
Once being in her life-
Now all erased from memory.
Scarred by her in carelessness
Or by each other in entrance to
This resting place,
No longer part of her breathing.

She doesn't remember each moment
Or the minutes belonging to each,
But they do.
And they will.

She empties the tray.
Ending lives and hopes.
Short lived yet
Essential when used.
Now dead and gone.
Out. Over.

Francesca DeVito is an 18 year old female from central New Jersey. She has a passion for poetry, evoking thought and things that cannot be defined.

Copyright 2009  Chantarelle's Notebook