*
I have worn shoes
covered with trails
dust sticking loud
louder than my long
path of silence I
have asked to see
the way I could tread
barefoot as in a dream
where roads aren’t
hard where people
say without speaking
love is reverence
.
.
.
.
*
a road to nowhere
days spent habits piling
up where the sky
.
still shines and showers
.
light stopping thoughts
in your own steps
you wish home to be anywhere
.
.
.
.
.
.
*
it takes but
a few days for
the white layer
on the mountains
to melt at their feet
back to bare skin
.
.
.
.
.
*
having infinity
taking over me
that is my practice
in the desert
to rehearse boundless
to have a sip of
eternity once
in a while
.
.
.
.
*
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
.
.
,
,
,
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 can’t stop
my steps
if every step
charges me up
verses overflowing
I’m the pregnant cloud
ready to pour as I sit
in front of this hot sun
I’ve my own shape
definite contoured
by blue patches
.
.
.
.
.
*
I sit quietly
to open this treasure
stillness the key
to translate
silence
my new language
.
.
.
.
.
*
the name says
there’s a bear who
owns a creek down
the cove deep down
where man made
circles of rocks
to trap the water
which will trap
the sky reflection
feeding their soul
while entertaining
some fish as well
each one dancing
to their own
destiny notes
.
.
.
.
.
*
writing comes
as waves of the sea
poetry is the
foam on the top
the sprays that
dance the air
words that speak
of universes
that were held
too long in the
shells laying
below masses
of heavy dark
volumes coming
and going
.
.
.
.
.
*
I was taken
behind the altar
to the choir seats
even behind that
past locked doors
to private rooms
beautifully adorned walls
filled with secrets doors
compartments carved
floors long planned
huge desks to think at
pondering villagers’ lives
I could not stop filling
the spaces looking
around feeling everything
under my fingertips
the wood and marble
the walls encrusted
–
–
.
.
.
“Not Rosaries Nor Missals” is a collections of poems started on July 2013. The poems, about a spiritual journey, have the habit to pop 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.
.
.
.
*
I pick up words
as small daisies
on a spring field
careful to hold them
in small bunches
never as beautiful
as when first spotted
a memory of wonder
blushing as they close
around their meaning
covering the heart
shy of a truth near
enough – our dull spirits
remembering only a note
or two
.
.
.
.
.
*
una volta l’ansia
mi faceva battere forte
il cuore le emozioni mi
esplodevano dentro e mi
sembrava difficile gestirle
davo per scontato drammi e dolori
oggi mi sbarra gli occhi
sento un retrogusto amaro
in bocca non spiaccico parola
di quello che sento ma – resto – come
chi è immobile davanti a un precipizio
cammino per corridoi che sembrano infiniti
.
.
.
.
.
*
.
I’ve learned
not to miss
what’s not there
silver nights
of solitude
under blue trees
.
I may still
long for what
we haven’t got
but it’s too much
to waste
this time
of peace
.
may not be
too much to some
but your skin is
soft against
my own
.
the distance
you need
to sleep
is an habit
of yours
not mine
.
my eyes probe
through and past
the palm leaves
a sky embraces
all the love
I’ve got
..
.
*
.
was dreaming of
sunny awakenings
sweet cuddling and
words few – tight together
.
was getting out to say
good morning – gratitude
will not fail me
a smile in spite
if everything
.
I will hold
happiness
between
my hands
.
.
