*
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.
.
*
poetry fleets
liquid to the corners
of the eyes laying down
remembrance unable to find
words to wrap up
these feelings
.
.
.
.
Sunday’s Poems are dedicated to Italian Poetry (audio version below), on Tuesday this poem will be published in English.
*
poesia che scappa
liquida agli angoli
degli occhi coricata
ricordo e non trovo
parole che incartino
questi sentimenti
.
.
.
Audio: Cliccare per la versione audio
.
*
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.
.
Sunday Posts are dedicated to Italian Poetry (video and audio version too)
Poesia in quattro stanze
I
ogni festa comandata è vendemmia
le persone stanno come grappoli
unite serrate vicine aggrappate
a volte tra loro solo ragnatele
pressate nessuno spazio
per muoversi
distinguersi
e si amano così
dicono
senza prospettiva
non conoscono distanza
vuoti
II
mi preferisco acino
solitario staccato rotolato via
pesante di dolcezza
piccolo il rostro
III
il primo era decisamente da grappolo
vive di social network frenetica
cicala gli arriva poca luce
resta acido
costruisce castelli
imperi di sabbia e parole
IV
il secondo si è strappato a forza
dal grappolo esule sulla motocicletta
si sa che in moto sta comodo
solo il guidatore
per assicurarsi la sua
indipendenza rompe
tutte le regole
tutte
non teme il futuro non
teme nulla e nessuno
ma l’amore
.
video and audio version Italiano
.
From the collection Colori Estivi, 2013
*
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.
.
Sunday’s Poems are dedicated to Italian Poetry
*
quando scrivo sono
guardo mi svuoto
sempre più ricca
guardo l’albero
nella nebbia e sono
l’albero e la nebbia
non avverto confini
non penso sento
la poesia è essenza
d’essere vita
.
.
.
Tuesday Poems will be in English as usual.
Sì, la domenica le poesie saranno in italiano!
*
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
.
.
.
.
