Frank J. Tassone

Tag: dVerse

  • Under Pressure

    The omega. Always the last to feed, despite my part in the hunt. Always the butt of snickers, warning growls, scuffles—and the bites and flesh tearings that drive me apart. Always the omega. All because I run to my own heartbeat. Because my howl is my own. Because the pack would rule me when I…

  • Solstice Sorrow

    First light arrives before five in the morning. The birdsongs arrive with it. A cacophony of twittering, and avian arias, shatter my sleep, and any hopes of returning to it. By afternoon, however, a scattering of songs—at well-spaced intervals—may arise. This abundance of radiance—so close to the end of the academic year. This longest day—followed…

  • Bird song sonata

    Before sunrise. Before even the break of day. The first robin begins the overture. Others soon carry the melody. Soon, the sound of their choral arrangement shakes away the last hope of sleeping in. Before sunset. Before even the hint of twilight. The last robin refrains the coda. The harmonies have ended. Only the last…

  • Mythic Menagerie

    The last traces of blue sky shrink away. A mass of moist gray swells in its place. Still, the budding maple leaves on the trees across the street reflect the golden hue of setting sun. For a moment. across this mad inscape purple tigers for dVerse Poets’ Poetics: Naming the Rose (pubtended by Merril Smith).…

  • We chalk affecionados… a #Quadrille

    Even at the worst… scratching of fingernails grating my spine the inspiration again and again Can there ever be enough… Effervescence just one wet wipe away that talcum feel on the fingers In the final analysis, it boils down… too many memories not to

  • Necessary Misbehaving

    ‘I am going to get into a lot of trouble.’ – Raymond Radiguet, Possessed by the Devil, Grasset 1923 As though it could be any other way. As though I have not tried measure after measure. All to encounter a brush-off as tender as a backhand across the face. As though a quarter-century-plus experience matters less than a…

  • Vernal Epiphany

    A stirring. Darkness ripples, and a sharp pain pierces through this enshrouding numbness. The silence once again resumes that tangible quality, the childbirth pangs of language ready to emerge. The black molts into a brightening gray, then bleeds off like ink diluted in water. Images arise, evoking words after an everlong muteness. The echoes of…

  • A Cold Mountain Hike

    Storm King Mountain State park. Snowy trails. A family of four stumble along one. One of two children—a boy of about 12—slips and falls. None of them wear crimpons, micro spikes worn over footwear. Mira and I hike past them, wondering why people hike in winter so unprepared. sunlit ascent the swush-swush of our boots…