Rose & Thorn Journal - Fall 2011
John C. Mannone, nominated three times for the Pushcart, has poems in The Pedestal, Glass, Mobius, Lucid Rhythms and Apollo’s Lyre. He edits poetry for Abyss & Apex and Silver Blade, teaches college physics in east Tennessee and is a NASA/JPL Solar System Ambassador. Visit him at The Art of Poetry.
John C. Mannone
Promiscuous Saxophone
From my mouth, a river of wind
Flows through the embouchure.
The shore of my lips cannot stop
The deluge of words translated
To sound. The woodwind sound
Sweeter than any voice thrusted
Through brass. Flares open to
Gaping air. Its color, blue, but only
Because the air’s coarse with tears.
I am no longer an aimless patient,
My heart scrubbed with resonance.
No longer will its brass chamber echo
Emptiness. I will kiss you with music;
I will moisten your lips with passion
Fruit, honey seeping notes into you.
A Vivid Portrait in Black and White
I see colors whisper names,
ghosts of Henrietta Marie
inside the planks of wood
from sunken ships—murals.
Magenta smiles warp deep
blue, ocean blue where ship’s
bell lays still. Clanging.
Clanging loud cries of men
whose darkened shadows
have been replaced. Finally.
Their fettered souls ascend
through blue sky, lesser blue
where anger has been washed
to muted gray.
Promiscuous Saxophone
From my mouth, a river of wind
Flows through the embouchure.
The shore of my lips cannot stop
The deluge of words translated
To sound. The woodwind sound
Sweeter than any voice thrusted
Through brass. Flares open to
Gaping air. Its color, blue, but only
Because the air’s coarse with tears.
I am no longer an aimless patient,
My heart scrubbed with resonance.
No longer will its brass chamber echo
Emptiness. I will kiss you with music;
I will moisten your lips with passion
Fruit, honey seeping notes into you.
A Vivid Portrait in Black and White
after Rothko, No. 61
I see colors whisper names,
ghosts of Henrietta Marie
inside the planks of wood
from sunken ships—murals.
Magenta smiles warp deep
blue, ocean blue where ship’s
bell lays still. Clanging.
Clanging loud cries of men
whose darkened shadows
have been replaced. Finally.
Their fettered souls ascend
through blue sky, lesser blue
where anger has been washed
to muted gray.
