*
peaceful the dust
lingers on my shelves
I touch books thrown
back in time where
is all that mind
knowledge gone
the people that
walked with me
transmuted no
stone left unturned
no thing left the same
I let dust be as
my eyes scan spines
bleached by the
sunlight come
god pick me up
.
.
.
.
*
the days I must
teach
I wake up
before birds do
I get off
in darkness
with darkness I return
stars shine
over me their smiles
.
.
Frozen Pond
.
.
Sunday’s Poems are dedicated to Italian Poetry
*
i giorni in cui devo
insegnare
mi sveglio
.
prima degli uccelli
parto
con il buio
.
con il buio ritorno
le stelle mi illuminano
di sorrisi
.
.
.
Tuesday Poems will be in English as usual.
Sì, la domenica le poesie saranno in italiano!
*
perhaps I live for ever
beyond the world’s borders
without realizing
those limits useless talks
and mean chit-chats
laid out as spider webs
perhaps I fly protected
in the blinding light
and at night I cry
cause I did not grasp it
.
.
.
January 27 was International Holocaust Memorial Day , this poems is my contribution to honor the victims.
.
*
I did read six pages
this morning
to make me revolve
once more
in the right direction
it has been
long since I could
poetry came
to give me a hand
to see who
am I once more
.
.
.
Feeling sad… The six pages mentioned in this poem I published Tuesday are those of a Mary Oliver book, and today, two days later, she passed away…
.
*
left with questions
raising as people complain
not understanding
hiking the silent way alone
making answers room
.
.
.
Yesterday it was my birthday, I choose this poetic meditation for today because growing is a beautiful, truly beautiful, journey – even when we don’t understand life.
.
*
hearing steps
of life carried out
gasping one day
they will be no more
times rolls away
my finger fail to
halt it to stillness
.
.
..
Happy New Year! Happy we are still able to count them.
.
*
mind doesn’t follow me
on grasping being
everything
kicks and jibs while
I feel and know
.
.
.
.Merry Chistmas and Happe Holiday – be poetic!
*
I write hesitantly
as if scared to feel
too much as if afraid
to make noise
.
to intimidate
the graciousness
of this whisper past
my ears past my mind
.
I got there somehow
once more afraid
to be cast away
when I was it
.
.
.
.
*
it’s there you know
poetry waits patiently
for me to return to
our holy silence
to our time alone to
that embrace if I could
never let go always
be poetry myself
.
.
.
.
*
it comes up
as water gushing
out of a broken pipe
the flood of tears
when I sit face
to face poetry
meeting me
.
.
.
.
*
i morti di quei campi
i morti della guerra
i morti delle stragi politiche
i morti del mediterraneo
i morti che
non appartenevano
alla parte giusta
alla razza giusta
al paese giusto
tornano tutti
in vita un giorno
come in un sogno
per svegliarci tutti
immagina
.
.
.
.
*
it has been weeks
since we had a good
time and talked one
to another poetry
and I weeks of dry
isolation weeks
of mundane problems
sinking down with
all the other people
.
.
.
.
*
I leave the dust
to rest on my books
I remove the dust
from my shoes have
you wondered
.
transforming desert
the vast space
filled with the wind
voice to instruct
my questioning soul
.
.
.
.
*
things cluttered
I move them around
just a bit as to call them
to make a list of prisoners
.
to make them feel less
lonely as my mind
speaks to them
their language
.
.
.
