Posts Tagged With: fate

the wisdom of the ground

you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed
you lived neither 7 years of drought nor 3 nights without a day
through the core of your eyes you let inside a hurry-scurry
of swarming cherry petals flocks of crowned swans sunrises with a purple mantle

and all the vain beauty of this world

the gray nun’s outfit is so straightly cut
and the vestment of the nightingale is so poor
so do listen my friend to the deaf-mute mother swaying her sleeping baby
listen to the wordless and powerful silence in the last communion

yet it is still too much

I saw once a woman in a funerary cortege, the other women cried aloud or wept along the way, only she lagged behind like a sluggish stone she hardly breathed when the road suddenly climbed and the funeral banner fell at the graveyard’s gate, she was still silent like the earth, some people said that she was a witch or evil because she did not speak, but she looked gently towards them with pure and sparkling eyes

I met once a man who loved his child and gave him a beautiful fairy tale to be read every night, after many years the child deserted him and did not come back, but the old man looked at the child’s picture with the same love in his eyes, when he died people said that he was a bad man because he kept silent and thus the rats ate him in his grave, but after a few more years his child became silent too looking at others like his father did once

you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed and neither do I

Categories: My poems in 2016 | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

our lord does not ask for interest rates from poor people

after you put in a coin in order to get the wheeled basket at the supermarket
you buy shoe polish nail polish floor polish in order to make everything shine
you leave a few coins in the transparent charity box where there are only a few notes
and you offer your child some chocolate pennies wrapped in tinfoil

the man-child too plays with fire
he re-raises the bet for his electronic poker game
coins with two faces like Janus the god who became a dote like some elders do
or like the people who are said to have a double-faced brain after surgery

close to the graveyard’s gate the cortege stops and the widow throws coins
others too are throwing coins for the place in the hereafter world
in order to make them fall head or tails
or rarely perfectly on their edges if the ground is fair and even

someday someone will smash the piggy bank and will throw away all the old coins
into charmed wells for unconscious deep wishes
into the clear water that washes everything apart from sins

Categories: My poems in 2016 | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment


for the sake of tradition
the real queen of hearts is the one who lives in wonderland
the guillotine is still functional if another snow white appears
or by chance a cinderella or the worst of evils a hybrid
curie dickinson saint cecilia
exactly like i was sometimes when it was sunday in my life
and all the burners of my kitchen stove were occupied
and i was singing like betty boop or like maria from the sound of music
sewing roses on a white fabric casting away the clouds
because of pure innocence

but in the big world only big game cards count
the real women know how to imitate the rain the orgasm and the tears
things that the other ones don’t even understand
the world calls the latter lost women and oblige them to pay interests
for every penny given as charity
the more their smile is closer to the virgin’s smile
and their children surely brought by giant white storks
the more the men say that all women are ****s and them the same

therefore all real women stand firmly on the ground
burning off their wings since babyhood
and their men learn to fly because the women deserve to be free
and them not

Categories: My Poems in 2015, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

persephone’s memories

and there’s rigoletto laughing out the cry of the one who’s defeated by fate/ among the spectators dressed in blue by the light flooding them between the acts/ and there’s the woman eternally defeated by love/ a cup with poison from which they drink/ the men used to believe

maybe the world means to win over that sentimental beast/ to open your eyes without amazement in front of the newborn’s cry/ the world in which passions die in the name of freedom

i wonder/
if this is exactly the sun in everybody’s eyes/
how could I tear apart the veil woven around every cradle/
with such soft hands it is impossible

somebody plays god every day/
lights up the fire and waists time/
searches among deities and tombs a piece of clay that he kneads/
folding the dough/
he tries to invent another empty space inside the earth’s crust

i took my knapsack on my shoulders it smelled like bread and onion i climbed upon the hill’s mane/ i felt beautiful and young/ i believed there will be a right hand holding my left hand/ when i came back it was snow and the house’s chimney was faintly whistling/ i bit a red apple from yesteryear’s crop/ it was cold and wrinkled

in the play of a lonely child there is room for a whole world/
of angels

Categories: My Poems in 2014 | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

elegy 011

it is so easy to kill me unknown brother
carved Samaritan image
do yourself a favor I’m an undecided blotch of color
indigo reaching for purple
shut at once the book you read from
and I’ll become a butterfly with my wings crucified
on two pages

maybe because of the need to forget
I see death as a hindrance on the wheel of torture
a camphorated ointment for nervous fibers ends
I’m closer today to the tree for hanging the noose
from which God forbid you to taste
look vanitas vanitatum
Yorick’s head lies on your plate when you receive your alms
the candle the baked apple and the wheat porridge helping

I stand up facing the wall
my voice isn’t yet untied
I wonder what is stronger and if the heart tips the scales
my achy breaky heart
on the balance between life and death
there are a few extra grams of soul
we will need very tiny jewellery weights
psalm 103
Fibonacci’s series the golden ratio

look my child the soft carpet
my warm body upon which you step this sacred day
my soles are thin they stick to the red clay
I turn upon the potter’s wheel
my everlasting mentioning
like I was that’s how I’ll stay
a crumb of Eucharist bread on the lips
the first and the last

Categories: My Poems in 2014 | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

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