POETRY BY SANDY DeLUCA

Sandy DeLuca has written novels, several poetry and fiction collections and a few novellas. These include critically acclaimed works such as Descent and Messages from the Dead. Over the past three years, she also co-authored three novels with Greg F. Gifune.

She was a finalist for the Bram Stoker Awards© for poetry award in 2001, with Burial Plot in Sagittarius; accompanied by her cover art and interior illustrations. A copy is maintained in the Harris Collection of American Poetry and Plays Poetry at Brown University, 1976-2000. She was also nominated once more in 2014, with Marge Simon, for Dangerous Dreams.

Her visual art has also been published in books and magazines. It has been exhibited throughout New England and in New York’s Hudson Valley.

She lives in Rhode Island with several feline companions, including a black cat named Gypsy and her two sons, Gemini and Leo. Another black cat, named Mojo, joined the household in 2023. He was born in her great grandfather’s house, a structure that was once a stagecoach stop. It’s the inspiration for recent short stories; and a novel in progress.

In addition to her writing, she is working on new poetry and a series of large-scale expressionistic paintings. She spends some of her free time volunteering at a local food pantry, photographing abandoned buildings and perusing secondhand shops.

FAREWELL TO PROVIDENCE

Weary of your ghost stories,
vampiric boneyards;
smoldering cauldrons on witching nights;
the card reader on the square.

I’m leaving you…
though you gave me shelter
from banshee men…
taught me to walk in shadow…
when vampires came to hunt.

I’ll say goodbye when crows soar
over Lovecraft’s grave…
no need for company,
or one last kiss,
tales penned in crumbling lofts…
I’ll ride the lonely road alone.

I GO BACK TO MY GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE

In murky dreams,
peek into rooms forbidden
when I was a child,
speak to guests who visited long
after I was put down to sleep,
gaze through rain-soaked windows
at dead leaves and pumpkins
splattered on the walk.

Tabby cats huddle close,
wash each other,
lover’s kisses;
they know secrets whispered at
the kitchen table,
by women with gnarled fingers
and rosaries tucked in their belts,
slicing October apples
with knives as sharp as Strega curses.

Oil and water mingled to release
demons that hovered by
by the chimney;
playing cards revealed
deeds plotted by their men
over wine and cigarette smoke;
sons laid out in caskets
before youth faded;
daughters tainted by sailors
met in the city.

So many rooms to discover…

What hides in the attic,
or in the basement?
corpses and vials of
dried blood…

bottles lines up on dusty shelves;
potions conjured on the day
of my birth.

The divine
mixed with the immoral;
they all look the same…

my legacy—
to taste every drop.

ANGEL HUNTING 

We met in a dream,
trekked across a beach conjured
from films and vampire fiction;
the first angel knelt on the
steps of city hall,
feminine,
with silky wings
and luminous eyes;
she disappeared before we
could touch her.

Others floated in marshmallow clouds,
“Imagine the view from a mountain?”
said a saint…
nails impaled her feet;
Peter beckoned, tapping a worn notebook…
endless logs of my Voodoo research.

I promised to go to confession on Monday;
gold coins granted admission;
a wisecracking detective checked my ID,
guided me over rock and roots.

I awoke when I spotted
the bloody feathers
jutting from his pocket.