*
I dreamed my secret name
yes it was written
on a white stone
everything was crystal
clear then just like
the sky today harmony
coated and I felt so
relaxed so sleepy
.
I fell into another night
when I woke up I could
not make out the writing
and I got news of more
deaths more killings
more drowning crimes
.
if I could if I just could
tell everybody their
secret names
waking them up to life
.
.
.
.
8.
some dreams are infinite it takes
but a few words to evoke those
emotions are a whole sea of waves
useless to separate them to make
some sense just a few words
can take you to sea free the page
among waves and winds
let the reader fly
.
.
.
.
After Wallace Stevens poem Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.
.
*
I didn’t dislike
school most days
yet I was anxious
each day to go home
to have lunch while
reading – to then take a small
break after the meal – under
the sun on the balcony
reading again underlining
my dreams to come
adding notes to my
future days
.
.
.
.
*
sognare è qualcosa
per cui vivo e quando
vivo mi sembra di sognare
tu questa cosa non l’hai
mai capita tranne una volta
ormai non ti vedevo da
mesi mi hai sognata tutta
arancione ed ero bellissima
mi hai detto ecco una volta
ti sei lasciato scappare
che ero bellissima
.
.
.
*
and then
there was that
truck fading away
into the curve after
having committed a
crime I witnessed
I knew I could be
of help if I memorized
the plate but I could
remember only three
numbers and its
shape – none
when I woke up
.
.
.
*
I cannot be richer than
on summer nights
deep in silence
and beauty
open wide open
window mind soaring
above a few clouds strolling
by the moon
the language of nature
whispering to me the
dreams to come
.
.
.
This poem is part of the newly published collection California Notebooks 02
.
.
12.
clouds have covered the whole
day slowing down my rhythm
I walk as barefoot on carpet
placing words carefully
dozing off a bit hanging
poetic moments behind my eyes
.
.
.
.
After Wallace Stevens poem Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
.
8.
some dreams are infinite it takes
but a few words to evoke those
emotions are a whole sea of waves
useless to separate them to make
some sense just a few words
can take you to sea free the page
among waves and winds
let the reader fly
.
.
.
After Wallace Stevens poem Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.
.
*
showering
under the full moon
each drop a miniature
globe satellite revolving
my breath slowing
with each step
in the garden
eyelids lowering
under the rays
reflecting
.
.
.
.
.
I was trying to
dilate a dream
connecting deep
taking time
the early afternoon
was suddenly dark
fingers sinking
into it wrenching
walking the mind
dumbfound rounds
and rounds
sleepwalker
on a pitfall
a dive into
nothingness
an upside down
.
.
.
.
*
I wish to be home
in the desert
wide open to nothingness
waiting
for my own shadows
immobile
vulnerable to the wind
filling me
emptiness and whispers of
far away lands
born in a dream I’m gone
as I write
.
.
.
.
A teaser from the new volume of the California Notebooks I’ve been working on…
.
.
*
we kept
each others
letters
first steps
on the coals
cheering
each other
I used to give
out a lot
all I could
I had long
travels ahead
I always knew
even dreams
were shared
and trimmed
as a dress
freshly made
for the occasion
.
.
.
.
“Not Rosaries Nor Missals” is a collections of poems started on July 2013. The poems, about a spiritual journey, have the habit of popping up here, for a maximum count of seven, in July of each year.
The older poems of the collection can be found, and read, using the search window to the right of this screen.
.
.
*
to ride the wind
is an old dream of mine
I have to (be) content for now
just whispers to my ears
wind that moves foliage
and flowers alike
that caresses the surface
of sea and rocks alike
to soar to dive to lazily
float around things
breathing again
and again
powerful
weightless
.
.
.
Poem from the newly released poetry book “California Notebooks” to get your own copy click here
.
.
.
*
some mornings
I don’t perform well
in spite of the flowers
the citrus trees
the sun rising
greeting me
on my walk
.
I seem to carry
the European gloom
draped inside
my sprinted limbs
as some unshakable
bad dreams
.
I find myself
observing
the hand of the others
greeting me on meeting
some reaching out
some limp
.
others waving in the wind
or just matter of fact
some from Mexican workers
non-hibernating Canadians
plus white residents on
tiny wheels on their way
to the better life
.
.
.
.
.
*
every morning
I wake up
do I
to the same
palm trees tops
the same mountain
yet the back drop
is never the same
nothing is ever
always enchanting
me with new tricks
as I try I do not fail
when I face another
day another dream
gratitude comes
each time
not always
easily
.
.
.
.
.
