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Best Debbie Guzzi Poems

Below are the all-time best Debbie Guzzi poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Debbie Guzzi Poem |

The Sowing

Upon the wind sheltered hillside,
the sharp tang of metal and the sting of salt air lay
over a field of blood-red poppies, no Flanders Field.

At years fall, fields of rape roll like waves,
in the harshness of winter-sleet, stray boulders bow,
like the backs of mothers, and daughters sowing.
Their nails torn, ragged, and bleeding.
They bleed by the moon, and son, upon the fields.
No white crosses mark their passing.

For hundreds of years, and crops of rape, barley and wheat,
small hands, soft hands, and soft thighs bleed.
They bleed daughters, and sons.
They birth the fields by consent or rape and in the fields 
unadorned by silver stars or purple hearts, they writhe.

Today, as May's sun wakes the blood blasted pasture,
each precious drop blooms, a heroines soul
acknowledgement, the poppies yield.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

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When Madness Rides on Moonlight

Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.

Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.

His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer. 
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.

Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link. 
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.

He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained. 
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.

The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Debbie Guzzi Poem |

Love Beyond the Pale

You lay upon the warm wet earth
now ripped from limb to limb.
Your present shape denies the girth
of your form in its prime.

A life cut short and denied its worth
about you ivy climbs,
my love for you evokes the hearth
a bonfire which knows no end time.

Now fallen, slain, cast for rebirth,
the core of you sublime,
an earthly stump, at forest skirt
reminds me of grand times.

Soon, I too will go beyond the earth
recalling passion's prime,
through the veil of life unearthed
my heart returned to thine.


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Debbie Guzzi Poem |

Missing Mother

Bits of me are missing mother,
the bits of me which you placed.
Bits of me are missing Mother;
ah,         I see you in my face.

Trying to remember Mother’s days -
wine and roses - Sinatra songs 
beaches, pipe curls and crinolines -
Days, so far gone, so long ago,
replaced by bitter brew: by tears,
by fears, by little pills;
I remember you.

I see you in my face     Mother.
Years gone by and still I try,
no easy thing to do, I try to remember,
just a few   memories of happy days
with you - 

Was it when   I learned to read;
when you baked your pies? Ah, Mother, 
mother memories only come in sighs.

Still, in all, it’s very true, I spend 
each day missing,   missing all of you.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Debbie Guzzi Poem |

First Communion

The powdery snow gloves the fingers 
of maple forest, protecting barren bark 
with the expectation of rose tipped bloom.

A meeting point between pristine
innocence and the veiled promise of spring
ripening. Each trunk and limb mirrors 

the action of man. Reaching, arching, 
swaying, creating aisles of church-like splendor, 
a sacrament where the virginal may walk

toward communion with their God. Inward 
toward the birth of faith and outward toward 
the wedgwood sky in celestial sight.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Debbie Guzzi Poem |

Down Fall

Within the warmth of home, I sit amazed
at the gentle fall of snow through window pane.
Cup of tea in hand, my layered thoughts unchain,
and tumble from the tip of tongue unfazed
to land upon a pristine page appraised,
aided by the silent fall through snowy pane.
Oh, the soft white wintry glow 'pon the lane
leaves a graceful drape, Lord be praised.

Within the warmth of home, I muse on themes 
of days to come and those gone bye and so,
I thank the Lord for all of nature's schemes,
for the gift of time, for peace, and for the snow. 
Oh, make the blanket deep, I wish to dream,
may all my days and 'morrows have this glow.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Debbie Guzzi Poem |

A Gentle Death

Avenge me not, for death has been a friend
and anger ill befits love's gentle wine.
All lovers true or not, must part, ascend:
rise, or fall, as life's trials their paths assign.

Still as bone, white as winter's snow my skin
by candle light, one can almost see inside.
My hair a gossamer halo, so thin, 
my eyes, my blue eyes, still contain the tide.

I am your fair Persephone, your wife, bride,
and soon I will return to you Hades
to rise born on cherry blossom tides;
when in the earth, I can no longer bide.

Bless gentle Thanatos for his death sublime
and Hypnos, as in sleep, I do recline.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Debbie Guzzi Poem |

Eccentric Eyes

Open eyed, long tearless, foul silvered orbs
have you no pity? The aqua tide rides dry.
Blind staring scorches, accusing twin barbs
who burrow inward, a destiny to decry.

Scattered rendering, puzzled pieces aligning;
"Please mercy has a place, why can't I cry?"
Remove the cataract veneer, stop my pining
"Have you no place for maddened souls such as I?"

Nailed to the boards you see a canvassed psyche
dabbed upon a casein shroud in hues most bright.
"How many lamp lit days will you seek to find me?"
The light betrays me and I live in eternal fright.

Eternities unfold in Lovecraft Tales 
upon the silvered side within my eyes; hell wails.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Debbie Guzzi Poem |


A mong the ash, the beech, the birch they fall,
U nder the boles of white, beige and gray,
T hickening piles, a golden cabal; 
U nvarnished leaves all in disarray. 
M audlin, they lack the rouge kissed spark of red
N earby, oaks brown, await the children's tread. 

* an acrostic done as an English Sestet


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Debbie Guzzi Poem |

Moonlight Serenade

Blindfolded, he takes me from the car through the humid air of August. He holds my hand, and then surrounds me with his arms, when small obstacles appear. He brushes the hair from my forehead, gentling me like a shy colt. The silk rectangular scarf, I had folded and tied about my breasts clings to me. My cutoffs ride up further exciting me, as he lifts me onto a wall. Shushing me, he says. “Sit still, honey.” I have no idea where we are but, his voice and footsteps have a slight echo.

the wail 
of a harmonica:
moonlight serenade

Vibrations tingle across my skin, raising the down on my arms. A bead of sweat mixes with baby lotion and follows a shiver down, from cleavage to navel. Seconds become minutes, as the song caresses me. Oh, how I love him, this long tall drink of water with his huge hands and slow drawl. As the last note hangs in echo, I hear him approach. He lifts me high and traces the droplet down to the top of my hip-huggers with his tongue. I am still blindfolded when he places me on the ground. I feel his breathe upon my mouth. The tip of his tongue plays across my teeth. Ah, I remember him, his face, his hands, his taste, and that night at the empty skating rink…but, sadly, not his name. 

the scarf 
falls from my hands:
the drawer closes

First Published by Contemporary Haibun On-line Winter of 2013

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi