My poems were casements on an eerie house.
They tempted me to slowly look inside
and see what spinning spider there, or mouse,
would publicize the darker side they hide.
Each darting glance produced another verse,
affording me a privileged point of view.
The mist helped me creatively immerse
myself in crevices where fancies flew
like belfry bats inside my bardic brain.
In time, subversive mysteries I’d gleaned
exhorted me to break a window pane
and face the taunting spirits that demeaned
my will. Immobilized by scribbling pen
and metric feet, I couldn’t leave again.
Frank De Canio was born & bred in New Jersey, works in New York. loves music of all kinds, from Bach to Amy Beach to Amy Winehouse, World Music, Latin, opera. Shakespeare is his consolation, writing his hobby. He likes Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath.
