You came every night,
my black angel, whispering
in the ear to let go of the
well I approached in the
dark, blindfolded,
to mingle my agony and the
hours made of
rose quartz, with the water.
You tried to ease my pain
after I knew that even the
echo from the hole
reverberated words that
weren't mine.
Don't give me up now.
Shape my time. Your
winged presence is my strength,
your colour is my sight.
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 4:12 PM UTC
Memories full of aching
branches of a ghost tree
sometimes a dim light
captures my eye, and
while I walk on the way
to it the arrival has a
brush with dark forces
turning off visibility
It's like being constrained by
a puppeteer controlling every
step, monitoring every move
And you know you can't trust
anyone
And you know you can't blame
anyone
They say you create your destiny
We are told we are responsible
for all the faults and flaws
success and glory
wealth and health
But how can we create our
Destiny if the others' agency
is unpredictable in this
blindfolded
chess game they call life.
Jan 19, 2020
Jan 19, 2020 at 8:43 AM UTC
Take me to the xylographs of Tunis
Where silken shades of colour
Dissolve and reassemble
Take me to the white veils of sand
Along with Elysia
To the oils of Giverny scented with
Climbing roses
( I want to touch them with my fingers)
Take me to the orange rows of Laos and
-further away- let me
Into the magic Australian Outback
( I want to count how many dots exploding
The picturesque of Aboriginals)
Take me to Berlin before the curtain on
The Night
To the peripheries of the world
( I want to look in the eye the eyes kept prisoner by Time)
Then let me into the remote echo of the invisible squares
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 9:00 AM UTC
Blaise said "the heart has
its order". That's true.
Mine travels on a map in
progress. There are no
borders. Sometimes it faces
gigantic stairs and I have
to throw it up above to
prevent it from being
drained. Sometimes it
joyfully takes a ride high
and low between the
spaces of your thoughts.
I whisper "don't give up"
and it doesn't, because
you are its deity and it
is your summoner.
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 10:06 AM UTC
I climbed once again my favourite
tree, the one where I used to go dressed up with constellations.
Sat on a branch, as a child, I summoned entities from the
outer space, hopeful to be given
the secret of life by some weird creature, a fearless knight from
Mars. Now I summon all those I mourned. Are you there? Can you
hear me? Do you remember when
we rang bells all around to get
some fun? Are there any bells on
the Moon? And you guy, you, are
you still young? Did you find your
mate waiting for you in the Milky
Way? I bet she does her best to
give herself that air of oddity you
were crazy for.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
When you hold me
it's like going through
a sunny road in winter
time.
It's like flying over
a red carpet of roses and
suddenly falling down,
melting me with this
ancient scent. It's like the
euphoric torment of a body
that sinks into the ocean. It's
like the sight of the candied
eyes of a child when all
around are eyes overwhelmed
with hatred. Keep me away
from the cold…
Keep me away from the
menacing shadows…
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
Once there was Lady Death at
my side. She blew a cold wind
in my room; sang a lullaby of
indefinite colours, a tune
without sound. Neither black
nor white this sad lady wore.
I did not understand she was
there for me. So I began to talk
to her about external things and
life and butterflies. She told me
I would have gone back to the
stadium of a lizard, stuck on a
white rough wall warmed by
the sun. I felt my body heavy
‘till she opened a breach in my
forehead. Then she told me I
would have gone forward to
the stadium of a stone carved
by tears. I felt my eyes blind
‘till she opened a breach in my
soul and I shivered. She told me
at the end that I would have gone
back to the present to the stadium
of a chrysalis. Then she opened a
breach in my chest that poured
dust of pain and my heart became
a butterfly.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
The will o' the wisp is
displayed on the screen of
conventions. There are those
who pretend to decipher it;
by borrowing philosophical speculations from the great
thinkers, they formulate a
critical reading, justifying the
poverty of the lexicon.
They dare to do so.
On the other hand there is
Poetry, sat on a bench
in a park somewhere, on a
rock nearby the ocean, on
an old chair in a remote room
without any other furniture,
on the pillow made with papers
of a clochard,
on the cover of an unabridged
book nobody wants.
On the trembling hand of a
young lover who picks flowers
for her, that remain forever
between the pages of a diary.
Poetry is in the multiplicity of life,
in the thousands layers, either
red or grey, that compound the
variety of the existence. It can't
escape feelings, love, roses,
tears, grief, graveyards and
gardens. And, even when it turns
to be redundant with naivety, it
keeps the greatness of its end
which is nothing else but itself.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC
My tears draw the
aerial view of a thick
wood, where the hands
of a ghost, carved an
easel whose flavour
brims my mouth with
crimson and purple.
Inspiration.
My tears draw the
shattered background
of a blurred photo of
green patches hanging
on an empty road.
Grief.
My tears draw branches
of olive trees kissing the
foam of the sea of sigh and
whispers.
Melancholy.
My tears draw palm lines.
They read long life
and well being.
Betrayal.
My tears draw the shape
of his eyes, wide open on
my consistency, as vibrant
as a melody of an arcane
chant, the fingerprints of
his protective gestures,
the circle of fire of his
embrace.
Love.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC