*
after decades spent
in the seriousness of being
pondering judging achieving
fastening my seat belt
to the land of lightness
where islands do float
as all my thoughts
in enchanted bliss
here silently I’m
.
.
.
This poem appears in the first volume of the “California Notebooks”.
.
*
may my smile
be forever loving
as I play in life
new roles and adjust
words as a tight dress
may wind clothe me
forever changing
just that loving smile
let that one survive
.
.
.
This poem appears in the first volume of the “California Notebooks”.
*
something to do with measures
unknown
to others the length
of my despair whether is
it by nature, mine
or a not understanding of facts
of the jokes
among men, their secret bets
their sudden shoulders
and all was lived
and built, all that had an essence
to dust them off
to cough them up
it’s all forgotten
at once.
I don’t seem
to understand other’s
measures, the sense of
their steps, it’s long
far from me.
.
.
.
From the collection of The London Hours, 2012.
.
*
I prefer the warm
rays of love to the
chills of any fear to
the dampness of
uncertainty
I like to see long
shadows departing
from me on any side
I don’t care as long
as they witness
my abiding
.
.
.
.
*
I remember well
the route of the skies
I may be on clouds
.
as you said
.
I may not need
to tread on soiled
divorced paths
.
the air is thin above
and the view is fine
I wish my wings back
.
.
.
.
This poem written in 2013 was published here on 22 January 2014 https://annamosca.com/2014/01/22/california-notebooks-dec-2013-4/ and is now part of the Collection “Silent”.
.
.
*
when my words
surfacing out of
poetry define
who am I
I cry
I also
rejoice and
stand still as
if suspended
all at the same
exact
time holding
that tiny particle
of truth inside me
that shining in spite
of me
.
.
,
,
,
*
pensive hazel eyes
flickering around
the night
where perfumes
sail
to the clouds
away
from the cracking
tiny sound of bare feet
on sleepy grass
.
.
.
.
.
*
I know some
tongues that aren’t even
tongues languages
of a heaven I don’t recall
learning but I own
I may be foolish not
to practice but is that
a requirement
how do I go back to
that country where
the horizon doesn’t lay
where each drop is
gold filling up
the atmosphere
where we met where
I met myself where
I was where
I am today
.
.
.
.
.
*
I’ve seen rain
stepping on the sea
incessantly tapping
not able to carve
time worn holes
as on rocks
because it
was welcomed
it was welcome
.
.
.
.
.
