Other Poems by:

Linda Balboni

Bursting Light

As morning's perfection introduces hope for the day, 
foreboding evil lurks in the wings. 


Unaffected, they forge through 
steadily embracing adventure of flight,
gliding forcefully
ghostly terror unfolds. 


Within cherished seconds 
symbolization of Red, White and Blue 
explodes a profusion of oranges and reds, 
while life's evanescent fragments scatter 
against a crisp panorama- 
fire bursting bright. 


Surreal horror unfolds as 
searing buildings slowly collapse, 
smoky rubble of destruction 
gently cascades down 
down 
down... 


Billowing haze engulfs the city 
revealing a haunting raven cloud, 
the Melting Pot transforms into 
imposing chaos. 


Days pass, bewildered divulgence of ghostly 

reality envelops helpless hearts as 
quiet spectators observe 
hellish images scorching distressed brains 
unraveling demonic atrocities. 


Digesting unpredictable horror 
layered with insurmountable pain, 
with inconceivable tragedy 
eventuating our world, 
evil boldly confessing truth. 


Void of fathomable words to conceptualize cold 

calculated abhorrence, 
troubled hearts grasp numbing anesthetics 
leaving desperation 
drawn from utter unacceptance. 

Forever in our hearts and memories.... 


Linda Balboni 2005

White Plaster

You lie there, solid and firm,
as onlookers gawk and comment
on how good you turned out.

They did such a good job, they whisper,
like white plaster thrown on hard walls,
you just take it.

How you love to hold hands, but not your own,
the Rosary Beads d r a p e loosely cross
spindly fingers, like drops from tears cried dry.

In the bed you made, you lie cold,
a hard box unlike the feathery soft
mattress you once fell into.

Consumed by a lifelong toxic cloud,
sucking in, you lie ravaged and still.

Oh, but for just one more breath of clean air.

Linda Balboni 2005

Summer's Scorch

So hot the scorch of summer's end,
warm breezes scarcely cool the air,
a needed cry, the clouds to lend,
so hot the scorch of summer's end.
Parched vistas thirst and sob to mend
on drying leaves damp mists of care,
so hot the scorch of summer's end,
warm breezes scarcely cool the air.

Linda Balboni 2004

His Reach

In the caliginous hallway
his frail hollowed hand slowly reaches 
into the stale stench-laden air,
as he painstakingly musters every 
fragment of strength left within.

One by one, his worn crooked 
fingers open wide, dangling unsteady,
resembling a withered flower
crinkled with time, he wistfully
grabs for a handful of nothing.

His shadowy mind searches for
words to speak, and though barely
discernible, he whispers a weak
communication while echoes of 
longing reverberate melancholy
sadness scarcely heard by the dead.

His stationary body sits alone,
soaked in disease, as minutes turn to hours 
he desperately searches not for a nourishing 
meal or his last healthy breath. Teardrops
trickle down his ashen face as his 
broken frame surrenders,
to one more day absent of a loving touch.

Linda Balboni 2003

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