by Paul C. Binotto © 2020 Truth, whether mouthed in jest by a gibbering babe at play, or when in momentary clarity, all incoherence is betrayed; falls softly as a feather, yet sounds loudest.
by Paul C. Binotto © 2019 Silver spoon, silver mote, One chokes the eye, the other, throat. Which the sheep, which the goat? Which the warning, prophets wrote? Retire for the night, Rise, re-treaded for the day. Walk in the light, Water and clay. The very stones wail out Against the silence cast in gold. … Continue reading Silver Spoon, Silver mote
Getting that first piece published is a milestone all writers must endure when starting out. The wait can be excruciating. Continue reading to see if you agree with what it means to me to get published; can you relate?
I cannot say where it went, Borrowed more, the less I lent. Oh, how the day was thus far spent.
by Paul C. Binotto © 2019 What a ghastly, ghastly thing, That a child so young, must drink The cup; feel the sting. Lost innocence comes swift, or by degree. What awful nursery rhymes We now sing; what memes. What soulful freedom's Bell that drums; the terrible truth resounds.
by Paul C. Binotto © 2019 Papa, tell me why Do you think,The flowers drink, Not from their mouths, But, from their feet?And, how does a roseSmell so good, thoughIt hasn't a nose?Papa, how, do you think?Tell me all that you know.And, Papa, tell me please,Why they're called leavesWhen they never G0 anywhere ever;Why aren't … Continue reading Flowers and Days
by Paul C. Binotto © 2019 Front Porches,Knee-walled, castle-fortress;Sentry station, marvelous appended creation,For taking stock of self and nation.Slowly and with little pomp, a flag-hand rises above the brow, on boney pole, and, Flaps a wind waving salute.