sambpoet@yahoo.com 

THE PHOBIA SOCIETY

I want to write a letter
to the Phobia Society of America
but I'm afraid.

That same old cold sweat,
the agony of pushing myself
beyond the usual "Dear Phobic Society"
frightens me and though
I want so much to write that letter,
I'm afraid.

And I would have so much
to tell those Phobia pholks:
those self-righteous,
Saner-than-thou hypocrites,
who sit in judgment
casting stones at
their members who are
so afraid.

I would write but then visions
of my letter buried in a postman's
dark brown, musty leather sack
leaves me claustrophobic,
not to mention that the sack
is on the shoulder of a stranger
who whizzes up up up up up
elevators to the 500th floor
to where The Phobia Society of America
has its office 
very high above the crowded New York City.
So I'm afraid.

Somebody inside me says,
"What the hell is with you, Man?
Reach out and touch someone!
Get that fear out of here!"

And just as I take heart to act,
somebody else inside me says,
"Easy for you to say.
Talk is cheap.
Try acting out, Tough Guy."
I'm in conflict.
I'm afraid.

A letter to the Phobia Pholks
means they will learn my name,
know where I live,
and they will reply!
"You must confront all the dilemmas
in your miserably cowering life,"
they will write.
"Your nights are supposed to be dark.
Elevators are supposed to go up up up.
Crowds happen naturally when more
than a few people stand together.
They can't hurt you.
Hey, Wimp, get a grip!"

I'm afraid 
they will want me to write about my life,
bombard me with platitudes like
"You have nothing to fear but fear itself,"
and all the time they're thinking:
"What makes you spineless wonders tick?"
Sometimes in the night I dream 
an unreasonable facsimile of myself
sits tall at a banker's desk.
Pen in steady hand, I write that letter,
offhandedly joke about how nobody but nobody
who climbs to the top of this big bank
could ever even remotely know Fear,
except the kind he elicits
in the pathetic little tellers
who fear one more year's no raise.

© 1995, by Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci  All Rights Reserved.

.TIME

time tells clocks,
not the other way around.
time decides how quickly
how slowly wounds heal.

time keeps us honest
keeping tabs on all
the small mercies,
the sharp-edged cruelties,

the rounded kindnesses,
that speak for and against us
in tick-tock cadence.
isn't it all so telling?

we lay odds, plan years ahead,
force our luck,
but do we ever ask of time:
Which of us are gone to sand,

at rest somewhere quiet,
clockless?
Even the wounds of the missing
refuse to witness on their behalf!

time, where can we say they once were?
or more telling:
WHEN were they?

© 1994, by Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci. All Rights Reserved.

THE SISTERS OF CHARITY

And where are the Sisters of Charity?
Where are those penguin-garbed nuns
now when I need them,
when I am sinking heart-deep in misery,
and it looks like I'm going to drown?
How come they were always around
when I was that grammar-school kid
being punished?
Those sisters raised blisters
from raps of the ruler
across this schooler's knuckles
they left red and raw.
And you would get more
if you dared complain of the pain.
You could hardly open and close
your hand but still you had to hold
the pencil or the pen.
Those nuns disappeared.
When?

When did they suddenly go away?
Back then they were always everywhere
when life was spring,
each day was a poem
and you laughed so hard
you'd get tears in your eyes
and the summer skies were like gifts
and tell me just who needed charity then?
Times were so good
when our parents kept us safe
and we knew the world was our playground
and who in the world would ever want
to break our hearts anyway?
Who knew then about parting,
of fathers and mothers making us orphans,
stealing away in the middle of the night
to find better places to sleep?
What child then could fathom the pain
beyond sprain, beyond black-and-blue knees?

Where are those Sisters of Charity?
Where are those nuns when I need them most,
when my days are all punish lessons
and nights bring on demons
that only some tough sister could chase away?

Where are those nuns?
Where did the run to?
Just who put the gun to their heads?
Who tried to rid them of their good habits,
infiltrated their ranks in civilian disguise,
Who told them lies?

I need to find the good Sisters of Charity.
I need to say, "Look at my knuckles.
They show little scars, but my heart 
is giving way. It needs to stop breaking;
it needs taking sweet comforting words,
a nun's kindness,
a bit of her sweet charity,
some nun to say, 'Bless you, my child,'
some nun who'll listen to me cry pain away.

Where are the Sisters of Charity?
Where are the Sisters to comfort me?

© Copyright 1993, Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission. 

WHAT WORDS CAN WE SEND?
(for Anna Coppola: 1936-1999)

What language can speak across Forever,
What words can pierce the veil at lifetime's end?
At first our lips are speechless. We never
Could have believed so soon we'd lose a friend,

And we question if our hearts will ever mend.
In grief so many words we want to send
Across the thin line that serves to sever 
This finite world from the one Forever.

In our moments long and lonely we tend
To recall years now gone, an endeavor
To keep our memories fresh, a clever
Ploy to somehow hold on to our lost friend.

How many times we tremble in our fear
That she is gone from here and we must spend
The remainder of our lives and hope when
Our time comes, we'll reunite forever.

But in the meantime, oh, so many tears
We shed! If only she could still be here!
The mornings, the evenings-- all day we spend
Like lost children, hearts breaking for a friend.

What language? What words? Prayers alone ascend
To heaven where she, eternally near 
Our Savior, has found her truest Friend.
Pray we all will find that place Forever!

© All Copyright, Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci
All Rights reserved. Printed By Permission.