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Best Poems Written by Anthony Romano

Below are the all-time best Anthony Romano poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Cyclical God

Unequivocal
Divinity, eyes-shut Spring
Weathers winters’ all!

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Time-Machine Love

I was delusional
Enough to think
twenty-five rose
Petals could create countless
Memories of exhilarating
Romance, the kind that
Leaves your stomach falling 
And then fading away like a child 
Echoing himself inside
A deep and devastating 
Well.
I was delusional
Enough to think 
Wit could match
Familiarity,
All the while using the
Most charming 
Yet rational banter 
Possible.
I was also delusional
Enough to believe in
Time-machine love,
And what would have been
Had our hearts not been
Otherwise engaged.

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Ways To Turn Yourself In When Road Rage Gets the Best of You

What do you see
When you open your ears and hear
The smell of death
Descending upon the valley
Quickly and methodically
Choosing words to fit
The description 
While the sketch artist 
Chokes them down with a
Lime juice chaser. 
Upon completion,
You see a mirror on the desk
And marvel at your own eyes
Gazing intently at your own
Eyes.
Confusion.
How does one project themselves?
Only I recognize me.
I giggle at the self-loathing,
And the pathetic detective work.

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12:27-Ish

When your best friends
Wear lab coats
And carry instruments
The steal smiles
And steam the meaningful 
stains
Out of your soul,
(The little imperfections
In all of us that 
Help sculpt and mold
Our images)
Remaining self-aware for
Self-awareness’ sake
Becomes potentially problematic.
Floating above reason with 
A touch of lethargy
Maximizes self-control
But detracts from
Fundamental choice.
Insomnia limited to
Social norms
Slashes and burns 
A one-way path to 
Narcoleptic days
And where have the 
Weeks gone? 
Seasons move like
Speed-demon racecars,
Their tornado tailwinds
Blowing up skirts as they pass.
The looks I draw would
Tarnish steel,
Heavy and demeaning;
With an arrogant smile,
I brush off my shoulder
And look through
The wormhole.

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Dollar Bill Love

The creaking door announces
Workboots demeaning the “Welcome Mat”
Pillow touched voices grow closer
Harder
Closer 
Apple grass licks my bare feet
As I launch from
The room soon corrupted
By sugar filled noses
And failed breathalyzers
And thrown utensils 
And threatened throats
Coated with failed divorce
And corrupt psychology
And unanswered questions
And dollar bill love,
But my love costs more
Than cherry bicycles
And lightning scooters.

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Rocketman

Would an inter-dimensional
Time sphere capture all the
Details needed to transform
A mere thought-provoking
Image into a mind splitting
Reality? We can see in front
Of our eyes the two plus two
Of it all, but what when the
Solution no longer fits the 
Problem and creating water
Out of wine is not just for the
Divine? I can accept what I cannot
See, but not what I cannot feel,
Owing all I have to the skeletons
In my closet.

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I Cant Reach the Knife In My Back, So I Cant Roll Over While Sleeping-

Can you turn 
Around and tell
Lies with your eyes
And fibs with your face
Because it hurts 
To see your smile
Develop, superimposed
And not visible to the 
naked eye. It hurts to
see your childish 
“He hit me first!”
mentality suddenly slip
between the planes of 
maturity and loyalty.
And it hurts too much
to take this lying down,
‘cause the knife in my back 
really hurts when I try and 
roll over. Thanks for the
lesson, I soaked up your
soul with a sponge, to
be wrung out the next time
trust tells me a new story.

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What Goes Around...

Restless shaking
is all that divides
the two equal realms
that exist between
heaven and hell,
between sleep and 
slumber;
the utmost plane
sought to by the
Shroud himself, 
creeping inside
the Gates of Peter,
influencing free will
and leg-locked choice.
Time passes like a
youngsters basketball
through traffic, with 
brooding afterthoughts;
yet praying the wet
road dries,
the car grows ABS,
or the driver had one less
beer than he thought. 
Loose ends entangle 
themselves in the "Patient Spider's"
web,
because eventually
the soul-searching moth will fly
towards the light,
creating orgasm out of
ignorance.

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The Sound of Love

Her sultry tone devoured at my ego, clawed at my patience and diminished my already sullen sense of self like 
a pack of hyenas slowly and methodically move in for the kill; every move is choreographed. Every move 
practiced and tried and tried and practiced. She goes for the jugular, I thought, as my blank computer screen 
became blank eyes that penetrated like lightning, yet colder than ice. The “out of sight, out of mind” mentality 
that plagued the past like a veil and a black hood obscured the truth to a reality fit for Picasso, and yet we 
traipsed through friendship like we were both a-singin’ in the rain, with red boots and a smile.

The fog has lifted, but the weather is not clear. Black and gray dominate a lime-splashed sky filled with ideas of 
jealousy and brief glimpses of hatred. Yet it is a silent violence, unique to love.  A slow, pious pain that envelops 
even the sauciest of men. Even the wittiest and most intellectual of men. Even the strongest of men. I run on a 
AA of hope; the secluded chance that I weathered the storm, holding dear to the sound of love.

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Plagued Generation

I swear I was an innocent bystander
when the mirrored metallic hotdog crossed the planes
of surreal and subconcious.
I witnessed the takeoff faster than a time touched
woman in a suburban grocery store 
when the last carton of milk with that later date is taken
from the mirrored door, reflecting her greed;
carried away to the late night Bingo games
and trips to the Cadillac dealership
and soon to that comfortable wooden box,
methodically placed in the swiss cheese soil.
We cry out, 
the little girls with clay knees and puzzle-touched dresses
we cry out, 
the little boys with bloated bellies and sunken eyes.
We cry out, 
Red Cross, refugee camps, blood diamonds and Darfur.
Limbs become scattered by
a government tattered with Public Service announcements and our safety is now measured 
by a color.
We call out to injustice with our broken generation.
struggling identites with wasted souls and plagued memories 
of fallen twins and combustible buses. 
We call out to injustice.