*
what I miss
is the time moving
slowly creating a still
silence inside
.
watching the clouds
surf slowly and the grass
grow tall when the rain
is done
.
walking uphill
seeing the sea from
afar holding its smell
on my skin
.
my time immersed
in beauty my time
my days my habits
I hold nothing
.
.
This poem is from the collection California Notebooks 01 available on Amazon if you are interested in purchasing your own copy for your own library shelves.
*
sharp the tree
branches
against the winter
sky black
a naked dance in
the brisk air
.
.
*
they the shards of ice
laying on water
don’t move nor dance
they lay still there
as the ducks try a piroette
other then gliding
.
.
*
if I could just still myself
as birds do when they fly
.
gliding afterward to see
for once what life is about
.
.
*
fall is coming
with messages
thrown at me from above
over my head as falling
leaves passing by
need I to keep
my hands free
.
.
*
under or above
removed from usual
grounds from valleys
to enter quieter realms
stillness and marvel
to be marginal
observing whether
with fish or birds
a new silence
lingering in
eternity
This poem is part of the collection Crossing Riviera.
By the way, in case you wish to give me some feedback based on your experience or instruction, this new Blocks Editor DRIVES ME CRAZY!!! Not sure it works for poems… even the Schedule seems more lengthy and complicated and, sorry for the past few weeks, missing the usual posting time and dates – I was experimenting with the Block Editor! Arrgh…
*
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.
.
*
it’s part of nature
to wait it took me
a long time to get
it to taste the truth
of such statement
beauty of flowers
starts in the cycle
the seed growing
in darkness eyeing
the sky smiling to
the breeze falling
asleep at night so
many times until
it’s fall come in
time that is a
repeat that
is patience at his best
.
.
.
.
.
*
transparency
is something I
share with fish
I’m suspended
at last a gracious
moment they
stick closer if I
hold in stillness
even more come
what is there
re generation
wisdom shared
I wish I could
last forever in
salty waters
weightless
.
.
.
.
More poems of this collection: “Crossing Rivieras” can be found on this blog with the search botton to your right.
.
*
mid day of August’s
mid month some echoes
of a church service
on a television where
there are very few visions
a small breeze rises
awakening me to
a tiny drip drop
a small precipitation
into myself until
an airplane breaks
the clouds in two
.
.
.
.
.
*
I satisfy myself
in circles of light
stillness and dances
it’s the music
within that slows
us down and we
wonder and return
to these lovely
planes
a step or two
to understanding
the sound
silence broken
by golden lights
we curl up
we are being
picked up
.
.
.
.
“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.
.
.
*
we sit in the sun today
still as the mountains me
and the cat by the pool
he has this strange habit
drinking the blue
water smelling of chlorine
I have the one of constantly
thinking – observing
while moving words around
we both had our fills
as we sit
immobile shedding sleep
.
.
.
.
.
*
wind tending
the lonely trees
too tall to reach
a few visits here
and there clouds
birds the music
played by the wind
kissed by the sun
caressed by rain they
get more attention
without moving
some of us do
.
.
.
.
.
*
eternity roams
inside me I can’t
help but travel
forever wondering
the mind and space
on earth as in dreams
seeking some order
chasing the waters
harmony to fill me
deep from the inside
to make me a lake
alas at home
.
.
.
.
.
*
I notice the silence
not anymore the chirping
or the chatter of the wind
I notice the hummingbird
trying stillness by furious
flapping I stop engaging
myself I let go of my eyes
frantic grasping of letters
on a page putting the book
where it was letting
my head down as
beheaded falling
.
.
.
.
.
annamosca 