John C. Mannone (2 poems)
Broken Stones
Wide-eyed, I remember reaching for rocks:
ruddy ones like wet rust, and dark olivine
chips wedged between sandstone, and flat
round cobbles—brown, tan, and gray.
Dad anchor-held my arm. I, tethered to him,
swung as a pendulum, scooping fistfuls
of stones from the stream, my fingers in tight
reflex, grappled the glinting stones. Flakes
of mica and fine crystals of citrine quartz
glittered in the broken stones whose skin
was smooth and hard. They should’ve been
unbreakable by anything natural. Even Dad,
with that same hard twinkle, couldn’t say why.
I emptied my heavy pockets—damp pebbles
and busted pieces spilled on hardwood floors,
their sparkles evaporating to pale dryness.
I remember squinting through tears as they faded.
Dead Leaves
I want to shake down the dead
thoughts from my tree
of knowledge
—of good and evil. Dead
leaves aren’t suppose to grow there
but they do, sprouting from glitter.
Fruits dangle from branches:
pride, greed, lust, and envy;
gluttony, wrath and sloth.
It’s Adam’s fault, not just Eve’s,
both of them were there
wholly seduced by coppery
lies lacing cores of forbidden fruit—
golden apples.
They’d see two trees
in the middle of the garden,
one with beautiful
dead leaves,
the other, scarlet, bursting
with life.
John C. Mannone has work in Artemis Journal, Poetry South, Blue Fifth Review and others. He won the Jean Ritchie Fellowship in Appalachian literature (2017), served as Celebrity Judge for the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (2018), and nominated for Pushcart, Rhysling, Dwarf Star and Best of the Net awards. He has three poetry collections and edits poetry for Abyss & Apex and other venues. He’s a retired physics professor in East Tennessee. He lives near Knoxville.