Rococo

The sky, I say, is not theirs. It is ours.
Not cherubim’s, not seraphim’s, not harpies’
or putti’s, no thing’s painted or transcribed,
no fable-frothy ceiling’s, age-old myth’s,
or catalogue’s of faulty heaven bids.
No gods’ of wind, but wind’s itself; no gods’
on clouds, though clouds’; no rain, snow, drought or flood
gods’, not even the sunset marked by grace,
the rainbow’s upturned smile, nor outer space
glistening through the atmosphere of air
at night. The heavens’ orbs float far away,
the earth and sea lie low, and humankind
do what folks do, and artists, only to join
the sky that was never theirs, and now is ours.




About the Author:
James B. Nicola has had over two hundred poems appear in publications including Tar River, the Texas Review, The Lyric, and Nimrod. A stage director by profession, his book Playing the Audience won a CHOICE Award. He also won the Dana Literary Award for poetry, was nominated for a Rhysling Award, and was a featured poet at the New Formalist in 2010. His first chapbook of poems, “Still,” will be out in 2012 from Stasia Press.