Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci is the former Editor of NEW WORLDS UNLIMITED (1974-1988), and of POETIDINGS, the newsletter of the New Jersey Poetry Society, Inc. (1995-1997). His poems and short stories have recently appeared in poetrymagazine.com, THE MANHATTANITE, APHELION: WEBZINE OF SCIENCE FICTION AND FANTASY, GREENWICH VILLAGE GAZETTE, NORTH RIVER REVIEW, and OPUS.

A collection of his poetry entitled PROMISING THE MOON is currently available as is his newest book A FAMILY OF SICILIANS: STORIES AND POEMS.

DREAMSCAPE

Once again in the spirals of dreamlight
you descend the floating stairs,
red smile fixed in sculpted stone,
your hand extended, trembling, white.
Though you chase off the dream demon that scares
me, still you turn away. "Go now," you say.
"In this dream I need to be alone."
When I try to speak, words click in my throat,
then I watch us fall through space: a pair
of two somersaulting lights
tumbling through the expanse of sleep's unknown.
In the real world somewhere a ringing phone
jolts me awake. I hear you ask, "Are you there?"
Once again your sweet concern, devoid of promise,
saves me from the night.

SEVEN SHORT POEMS

        I

the moon rises
in a rice-paper sky
all honorable stars bow

        II

the blind man
is prejudiced
by fragrance, touch
and sound

        III

magpies yammer
in an otherwise
quiet yard
the black cat
will learn to fly

        IV

think of dawn
and meditate yourself
into an alpha
blind to endings

        V

I could never find the moon
it hides like a Spanish senorita
behind a black silk fan

        VI

memories are crumbs
once the bread of life's
been eaten

        VII

why the angry ocean?
why not the placid lake,
the timid creek?

THESE HANDS

These hands
you called "long-fingered, soft, gentle,"
hands that wrote you poems,
waved hello/goodbye,
folded in prayer,
pleasured you in love-making,
made me feel good you loved them

these hands
would be the first of me
to grasp the meaning of your lies,
to splay these fingers
as if to shield my eyes
from not seeing what was there
or maybe what wasn't there.
I could grope in darkness,
reminisce with open eyes
how once I had seen the sun
seep through my fingers
and trust sight again.

These hands
of mine once in a moviehouse
how you leaned your head against me,
took these hands, kissed them,
rubbed them against your cheek,
and whispered: "I adore you!"





These hands
these very hands!
And yet whatever love or adoration
was ever there at all is gone.
Now even those hands are gone;
in their place
the beggar's upturned hands;
the blind man's fingers tapping
in the dark for familiar textures;
the warrior's sharp-blade hand--
All mine!


These hands
once gentle have grown ugly,
have tried to strike down the lies,
to wave clear the smoke of war,
to beg for truce and truth.

These hands
of mine you said you'd hold
within your own
and that way we two would walk forever.
You said, "Your hands are soft as if
they were a child's."
Now when memories tear through
the slits of quiet time,
I do sometimes glance down at

These hands,
these fingers writing poems,
these fingers clawed around a wine glass,
these fingers at my bearded chin,
and wonder what these hands
really meant to you:
Raised in anger and frustration,
in greeting, in friendly gesture,
at rest upon the dinner table,
at dawn upon the bedsheet--
What did these hands mean to you?



These hands
whose last touch upon your shoulder
when we parted meant "I forgive you"
caused you to turn your head to me
and though love by then for both of us
was lost to greyness and goodbye,
you turned your head to me,
you kissed the trembling fingers
of these hands.