Carlo DeVito

The Year of the Plagues

Not all the first born died instantly.
Some lingered for days and the howls
Of anguish would speckle the day
With bolt upright anguish.
My uncle, languished in his bed.
Tall, muscled, brawny,
Laid low by a foreign God
whom Pharaoh had denied
Yet again.
My uncle fought bravely
Trying to speak, gurgling,
The blood in his mouth,
the Signal of the end struggle,
He laid there in silence.

Funny the things you remember
About years like those
The sounds of the crickets
And grasshoppers chirping
On a warm summer night
Coming from the tall grass
The dry winds coming off
The dessert, and thinking how
Lovely it all was. A momentary lull
In a year of horrors.
Grasshoppers usually lead such
Secluded, solitary lives.

Then there were the first outbreaks
The discussions at dinner were filled
With exhaustion, anxiety, dread.
We prayed it was a passing thing.
We were all too tired in our hearts.
The smell of the dead fetid cattle
Donkeys, goats
Piled on one another like pyramids
Swarms of black flies swirling
Like so much smoke
Set aflame, the stench of
Blackened Carcasses still filled our noses
And drained our souls.

But then came the upsurge
And some how an innocuous insect
Becomes a giant menace
And suddenly a swarming cloud
As big as the sky
You can’t talk, at least not outside,
Lest one flies into your mouth.
We stayed shuttered inside for days,
Baking bread, dreading the front door.
They were in our beds, our pots,
Our stews, our cups of
Reddish water.
The horrible humming as it got
Louder and louder, till it was a terrifying
Roar you could not out shout.

Yet Pharaoh denied, told us to persevere
As one horror replaced another
And now here was my uncle,
gaunt and weakened, struggling,
His bronze skin ashen,
Fighting to prove Pharaoh’s proclamations.
I clenched my fists, bit my lip,
Knowing his was yet another body
To be thrown on one of the
Numberless pyres in the squares
Around the city

We were among the lucky.
Many had passed instantly
With no chance to bid farewell.
My uncle’s slow passing
was the wrenching reward left to me.
I Remained by his side, comforting,
As the rage inside me burned.
This was his Pharaoh’s murder.

Uncle’s wheezing came to a momentary halt
And A small cricket chirped it’s song
Individual, sweet, not the terrifying din,
music to our ears.
And my uncle’s red lips creased a smile,
He looked into my eyes.
And then he passed over to Osiris
And the cricket sang a mournful
Goodbye.


The Scarecrow's Lament

The emerald Gotham sparkles.
Flags flutter. The halls echo with song.
The horse of a different color whinnies
and neighs and prances.
But without you, Dorothy
The panes are shuttered, black.

I have lived many lives
A man in many guises
Loved a woman
Raised a family
Farmed the land til it gave forth

But it was not until Oz filled my head with bran, and, pins and needles,
proffering his diploma that I finally knew one truth.
I slumbered through countless years
I studied the skies, guarded
The crops and battled the crows
Content in the cycles of nature.

But I was never fully awake
As when we adventured together.

I am not sure where you are
Which road you are on
Or if it is the same as mine.

But You are the flesh and blood
Of my dreams. In them
Your hands reach for me,
Your arms encircle me,
Your lips welcome me.

How does a farmer's hand
Entice a princess?
Oz did not bestow enough logic
To understand

The tenderness of your touch
The warmth of your eyes
The heat of your body
The strength of your hips
I see in my dreams each night

I yearn for your laugh
I desire your intellect
I envy your zest

Inside these ragged discards
There is enough tenderness and brawn
to weather many seasons still.

But How I wish those ruby slippers
Might click right now
And bring you to me
And give rise to my soul once more.


Saudade

In the back of the freezer
Wrapped neatly
In aluminum foil
Is the last small piece
Of Irish soda bread
You sent me so long ago.
A humbling piece
Of your heart.

I still relish the memory
Of finding you in The dark -
warm, inviting, giving.
I miss the heat of you,
Your scent was my
Sanctuary, in your soulful
brown eyes my home.

Long after you were gone
You lingered so in my
Kitchen, my sofa, my bed,
As if you might stroll through
The door at any moment
Your swaying hips and lithe limbs
Confidently owning the space.

Now, I rummage through
Icy packages of
Frozen corn and cauliflower
Seemingly wanting
Something else
And stare distractedly
At the back of the freezer.

I dare not savor the last
Bit of the yellow raisin-ed cake
With tea and sweet salted butter
And marmalade
For fear that you will then be
truly gone for ever.


About the Author

Carlo DeVito is an editor, publisher, writer, and professional winemaker. He has been a publishing executive for more than 20 years publishing Stephen Hawking, Dan Rather, Philip Caputo, James M McPherson, Gilbert King, and Michael Lewis among many others. He founded the highly acclaimed Hudson-Chatham Winery, and is currently the winemaker at Unionville Vineyards.

He is the author of more than 20 book including Ten Secrets My Dog Taught Me, Inventing Scrooge, Mark Twain’s Notebooks, A Mark Twain Christmas, and Mrs Lee’s Rose Garden. He has also written and lectured on Melville, Austen, Clement C Moore, and many others.

Carlo is a member of the Woodstock Poetry Society, and has read his poetry on several Hudson Valley independent radio stations. His work has appeared in several magazines and newspapers.

Carlo has appeared on television multiple times as a guest on CBS, ABC, NBC, and FOX morning shows. He has been featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, USA Today, The Christian Science Monitor, the Hartford Courant, The Tampa Bay Tribune, and other national newspapers.

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