Author Archives: anna mosca

About anna mosca

Artist, poet, photographer, reader, lover, walker, traveler. Feeling in wilderness. Been writing lots of poetry, taking less pictures, teaching a whole lot, traveling less than usual, loving more than allowed, riding public city bikes and not planes, puzzled over paintings. Beside all those forms I am.




I end up at times

visiting old friends

dinners stretching


over time feeding

our souls

the privilege


of recalling

the spirit’s



our hearts

a candle burning



steadily shaking

in the evening

breeze leaves


we are made to fall

and to die

full of colors


when it’s season



“Not Rosaries Nor Missals” is a collections of poems started on July 2013. This poem comes from that collection.





life as a bird

an egg in a nest

in unexpected


places hidden

cared for and guarded

with parental


love cracking to

the first light revelation

being fed and


taught to sing

before I could fly out

into everlasting




Come muore un cane


Sunday’s posts are dedicated to Italian Poetry


come muore un cane

rannicchiato sempre

più stretto tra lunghi sonni

camminando a malapena

su due gambe quelle davanti

tremando quando mangia

sempre più stanco sempre

più piccolo che quasi

lo puoi prendere in braccio

dolcemente ti cerca

con gli occhi per un bacio

in più e la tua fronte sul suo naso

e per quell’attimo fermo silenzioso

prima dei miei complimenti

che incartano il magone

quella certezza che ogni

giorno insieme sia un dono

quel suo muoversi poco

sempre meno anche per

raggiungere il sole che scalda

le ossa storte doloranti

quel sospirare a fondo

quando racconta al gatto

qualcosa mentre lo segue

con gli occhi io cerco lui

e lo osservo immobile

per scovare il prossimo

respiro nella cassa toracica

ben delineata dalla magrezza

in mezzo a questa dolcezza

tra sorrisi mesti e lacrime

trattenute dentro come i fiori

che si chiudono la sera

come muore un cane

di vecchiaia




Ho scritto questa poesia a Giugno e la mia cagnolina fedele è morta l’11 Luglio 2020, ieri, dentro un corpo vecchio ma mi ha voluto, fino al suo ultimo respiro vicino a lei, tra carezze e sussurri e quello stupore immobile finale.



under or above
removed from usual
grounds from valleys
to enter quieter realms
stillness and marvel
to be marginal
observing whether
with fish or birds
a new silence
lingering in

This poem is part of the collection Crossing Riviera.

By the way, in case you wish to give me some feedback based on your experience or instruction, this new Blocks Editor DRIVES ME CRAZY!!! Not sure it works for poems… even the Schedule seems more lengthy and complicated and, sorry for the past few weeks, missing the usual posting time and dates – I was experimenting with the Block Editor! Arrgh…

One More Query



while we artists

on earth spend days

hardly making

a living as we struggle

to find the right

hues the precise color

to define a day

to portray time tell me

my dear where

you now indulge beauty

where time is

no more what color is

the forever


⁃ To Michelle Pelletier –






the wildest

is at the bottom

of peace


the loneliest

is found among

a crowd


the kindest

is yourself forgiving

after rage




Poem from the collection Silente


Last week no poems were ever published due to the gravity of George Floyd’s killing and in observance and solidarity of Black Out Tuesday and Black Lives Matter.

Solitude Serves Me Well



before is the bird’s
song and the occasional
car passing by

then the refrigerator
freezing while shaking
the hot water boiler

or an airplane
far away the mailman
comes dropping

volumes of papers
we need to lift glance
at a minute then dispose

that’s how days roll
away how solitude
serves me well




This poem is from the California Notebook collection, available in paper book and digital format.

The Look My Soul Has


in between loving cats
and feeding elders
roaming paths

it was the caressing
with my eyes of the olive
trees barks twisted by

the winds and the lack
of water – is that the look
my soul has – she had no

idea life was business
to attend same the church
and the cats and the elderly

2013-10-27 13.48.09



This poem is part of the collection Not Rosaries Nor Missals.

Anni fa…



Incontro un piccolo cane,

frenetico, affamato.


Si affonda nella spazzatura.


Disperazione, tenerezza,

pianto, le nostre miserie,


che lui incorpora ingoiando

immondizia, impudico.


Lui senza vergogna.




Inedita, Italy, 2011.




Ci ascoltavamo

senza parlare.


La lentezza

dello sguardo

dava alla

nostra storia

un ritmo lento








Mettevamo a fuoco

ogni cosa e forse

ci siamo spaventati.



Tratta da Imputami il peccato di voler sopravvivere – Ottobre 2010.