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Joey Foto Poem
the ice cream truck
do you remember in fourth grade when it was the end of the school year?
kids running around in class, volunteer parents planning for field day events, teachers grading tests.
a year's worth of crafts and colorful displays filled the walls like wallpaper.
you can hear singing from the kids in room 4b, ms. mcdonald's class.
the weather outside was a balmy 80 on this june day.
text books, paint brushes, and the obligatory pre-chewed bubble gum filled the desk cavity.
the assistant principle announces something inaudible on the speaker system.
and we are fast approaching the anticipated summer break.
summer. that's when spring lovers finally kiss and the butterflies leave their cocoon.
birds singing and the flowers are saturated with their red, blue, and pink hues.
the last day of school is finally here and the children ride the bus for the last time.
vacations. swimming pools. ocean city. the smell of hot dogs, grass and humidity.
jersey summers are hot. really hot where i grew up. you sweat just by looking out the window.
then one day, the familiar sound of circus-like music faintly approaches town.
louder and louder until everyone knows its the ice cream truck turning the street corner.
the famous mr. softee, or good humor truck, or some local self employed bearded man.
whatever it was, ice cream in all kinds, flavors, colors, and shapes was 25 yards and 25 cents away.
the music kept playing as children seemingly sprayed out of their homes in rapid succession.
a gathering soon followed with parents and children standing all against that delicious truck.
chocolate. peanut butter. vanilla. strawberry. cookies and cream. cookie dough.
sandwiches. bowls. cones. smoothies. sundays. sprinkles. nuts. oh so yummy!
i miss that ice cream truck. i miss those days...
...and i miss you just as much.
Copyright © Joey Foto | Year Posted 2013
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Joey Foto Poem
never are two alike.
wafting to and fro with gentle breeze,
a dancing ballerina the twirling flake,
motion with vicissitude it sings,
the vapor, the crystal performs.
in costume white appears its shape,
dendrite, needle, plates, and branches,
as stars afloat the midnight sky,
its nuclei the symmetry hexagon.
adrift in sea of air so cold,
the atmosphere burst forth like springs,
down the river of wind it flows,
the flake aglow, the moon it makes.
the perching flake atop the branch,
a tree its home a flake does nest,
with noonday sunshine sure to come,
the snow, the flake, will be no more.
Copyright © Joey Foto | Year Posted 2014
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Joey Foto Poem
i've always believed that love lost is unpleasant,
painful as little as a lachrymal biopsy,
and as much as an emotional disembowelment
or lobotomy of the heart.
i am told that a love who walks out or finds love,
initiates a season of mourning and pain.
tears.
fears.
loneliness.
isolation.
abandonment.
uncertainty.
depression.
forsaken.
unlovely.
unwanted.
betrayed.
damn.
but, what if, just what if love lost is wisdom gained?
what if abandonment was the necessary path to faith?
or uncertainty the road to confidence?
should i have regrets about the past?
should i doubt that all things are predestined?
and should i lament providence through pain?
all for a purpose,
i have no regrets.
if i must suffer betrayal, loneliness, and love lost
to vividly and fully taste the rich and textured beauty of life,
and if i must endure betrayed affection,
in order to understand having it,
then may i lose love, time and again;
i choose to frolic and freely swim in the tides of depletion,
i submit to its tornadic and hurricanic winds;
and i yield to its tsunamic waves.
letting go of loss.
the winds carry its despair.
the waves swallow its torment.
to wash and rain cupid upon fertile hearts.
love lost is inoculation for my soul,
it bleeds,
it wounds,
it swells.
but averts phlegmatic infections and rigor mortis de la coeur.
so love lost becomes gain,
and gain loves again.
Copyright © Joey Foto | Year Posted 2014
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Joey Foto Poem
Below the stars and silver moon,
Abounds the coruscation of silhouetted curves.
Sinusoidal and voluptuous,
Seismic undulating and venereal.
Your mind synaptically aglow under the light,
Evokes ethereal perspicacity within my soul.
A torrent tsunami of desire thrusts my body.
Leaves me wanting to make love to you:
Make love to your mind,
Make love to your body,
Make love to your heart,
Make love to your soul.
All under the emanating fragrance of the horticultural moon.
Copyright © Joey Foto | Year Posted 2013
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Joey Foto Poem
Why do I dwell among love makers and evil doers?
What about the human condition do men lie and cheat?
Is love just chocolate, Valentine's Day cards, and red roses?
Copyright © Joey Foto | Year Posted 2020
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