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George Capaccio Poetry

A Pair of Sparrows Brawling on the Sidewalk

by George Capaccio

Like liquored up brutes spilling out of a bar
with fists flying over some misconstrued remark
and bruised egos ready to unleash Armageddon,
the two birds are having one hell of a fight
with no holds barred and feathers flying

as they take turns pinning each other down
in a fury of wings and jabbing beaks,
till one lay panting on the pavement
forced to admit defeat.
Then the champ, briefly distracted,

releases his hold. Too bad!
His rival recovers his strength
and with a sudden bolt
leaps to his feet
ready to peck and claw his way to the top

of their rough and tumble brawl.
Two featherweight fighters
in hot pursuit of each other
soar skyward, wings pumping
rapid fire.

Someone more fable-minded
might draw a moral from this clash of avian brawn
about the nature of man and his reliance on force
when some cocky interloper
threatens his perch and whatever crumbs

he claims are his. But as for me
all I see is a mad scramble for dominance
and final control of natural resources
before the planet goes up in flames
and the moon falls into the sea.

Danse de l’Esprit

Perfectly blended bodies
No blemishes
No wrinkles
No frown lines
Thick lustrous hair
The sort you see in commercials
For some new miracle shampoo

Young, dazzling in their youth
And fiery quest for fame and adulation
They are after all artists
Their bodies the very birthplace of glory, grace, and wonder
As they twist, turn, spin, leap, slide, vanquish
Age and all its imperfections
Rapture in their every movement
The ease with which they shape time and space
Into the most exquisite patterns of light

I who am not young
I who am not lithe nor slim nor perfectly attuned
To the tempo of my own rapidly passing time
I who am falling further and further away
From whatever promises I swore to keep
I lift one foot then the other
Dragging behind me the weight of years
The heaviness I have come to equate
With the measure of growing old

Still, the silence of my ways
And the music that plays when I am most alone
Beget a style of dance, a kind of turning and turning about,
Perfectly balanced, arms thrust out

Blackbird Autumn

Was it a blackbird that spoke to me before I had even opened my eyes for the very first time, and did he tell me the way it would be in my life and how autumn would be that time of year when my soul feels most at home in the world, especially as the sky begins to darken, and the trees against the falling light become sheer silhouettes, and the silence that surrounds me replicates the absence I feel when I am alone?

Almost palpable, that feeling is. As if when the last scrap of light is gone from the sky, my death will approach with the tact and deference of a true gentleman and tell me what I have always known.

Look, there is a solitary star shining through the branches of a tree. It appears so suddenly, so succinctly, almost the way an unintended tear will form in the corner of someone’s eye followed by another and then another the way the stars are shining now.


George Capaccio, a native New Englander, now lives in North Carolina. He rose to prominence in his twenties with a series of dead-end jobs while writing on the side—poems, mostly. In his thirties, he added storytelling and acting to his résumé while still writing—poems, mostly. To date, he has written over 30 books of fiction and nonfiction for educational publishers. His book-length poetry collection—While the Light Still Trembles—took first prize in peace writing from the University of Arkansas. George is currently touring his one-person performance as Albert Einstein. You can learn a bit more about him at https://www.georgecapaccio.com

The Writing Disorder is a quarterly literary journal. We publish exceptional new works of fiction, poetry, nonfiction and art. We also feature interviews with writers and artists, as well as reviews.



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