I have always been the clay
Always.
When my parents moved me from my Italian home
To Hamilton, Canada

I was the clay
I learned English
Decorated a new bedroom
Made new friends
Dressed like I was born here
I became Canadian
Without a complaint

I was the clay
When my Canadian boyfriend
Fed me Canadian food
I ate it
When he wanted me to go to the bar
With him and his friends
I went
When he wanted to watch football
Which isn’t actually football
I watched too
When he started listening to country music
I learnt all the lyrics

I was the clay
When my parents had a baby
I changed diapers
Played ball with her in the yard
Was a good babysitter
Went to the playground
Played peek-a-boo
Read children books to her in English

I was the clay
When my boyfriend wanted to take a break
I said okay
When he wanted to get back together
A month later
I said okay
When he said we should move to Edmonton
I said okay
When he asked me to make Canadian food for him
I learnt for him
When he blamed me for everything
I nodded and said sorry
When I found him in bed with another girl

I became a bird
I was not the clay
I grew feathers
Colourful and long
Then I flew
And I don’t ever plan on landing

my warmth aches
for the pleasure it might receive
brought forth by the rigidity
of your wanton lust

my eyes grow heavy
saturated with tears and the syrup
of peaches, sweet nectar falls
slow molasses, dripping down my cheeks

the sun grows cold against my skin,
ashamed i've lost my way again,
misguided by empty compliments
and warm, callused hands

your fingers fit perfectly inside me
and melt away every inch of my being
i float farther towards paradise
when you're feeling my pulse

i missed you in the french alps
and was blue in the corridor, stained
with age and mystery from weary-eyed
girls luring men through broken shutters

paris is *****, you wouldn't like it there,
but rome is divine, with magic in the air
hold me close in your suit coat with wine in my veins
and thrill me above the streets, watch me cry out and pray

i want to wake up to the sound of an accordion playing on the quiet cobblestone streets and have the heat of the Mediterranean sun kiss my skin as i walk into a local coffee shop and order a chocolate biscotti i want to walk the cobblestone streets of Venice and visit little bakeries and as the night falls i want to sit under an olive tree outside under the moonlight and drink dry red wine with the love of my life

"Moments"
That moment
or is it this moment,
the next moment,
That defines how you define, that moment, in your life? ~SacredInkedveins
"Moments," written in a moment on 04/25/2017 in another moment of sleeplessness. Okay enough of that word. Blessings, me © 12 hours ago   life • moment • family • random • misc

Unfold the map of the world and trace
a kaleidoscopic boot-shaped country
rising from the waters lavished by Atlantic
in a multicultural basin at the heart

of a flat globe. The Mediterranean birthed
by the Zanclean deluge, witness of myriad
exoduses intertwining genes to encompass
peninsular cradles of early civilisations,

a medley of ethnicities trading goods
discoveries and ideas on sailing caravels.

Two thousand years later the remnants of
the Roman Empire vote, the democracy
they had co-founded two thousand years
before, on philosophies of justice, equality

and human rights. Power to the people,
lost in the process of history making,
populaces disillusioned and frustrated
at millenary successions of failed rulings

corroborated by corruption and personal
greed of those chosen to represent them.

Today Italians vote anti-establishment
thereby at long last rejecting ideologies
of the past, too old to bare credibility
electing a party set outside the box,

no left right nor centre, victory of populism,
communism and capitalism burned
at stake for their crippling sins albeit
international cold-war renaissance attempts.

Marking the end of the twentieth century
the twenty-first bets on the refreshing breezes
of new tantalising illusions, cuts to public debt,
income of citizenship, youth employment,

tax reductions campaigned to allegedly increase
family spending, for whatever we do we are
all bound by a unique reigning doctrine under
the unified global empire, of consumerism.

I touched water yesterday white and cold,
purposely hardened by pugnaciously low
temperatures fighting to withhold
the solid fluid against a thieving star, roaring

sweltering rays to melt, moulded men
made of snow, as the girl grew disappointed
expecting whipped cream texture, lack of softness,
digging deep with fingers covered in gloves,

to make ***** to throw at others who will smile
at the jovial play, insensitive to the endeavours
of the eroded mountain modelled by many million
years of scorching suns, blistering winds,

blizzards freezing falls as they cascade, sculptures
made by nature crossed by bridges, so heavenward
drivers succumb to overwhelming giddiness
before entering an endless claustrophobic tunnel,

where science laboratories hide secrets
of the universe under a three thousand meter
elevated rock. The Great Rock of Italy an immense
park, where protected species graze unscathed,

farmers’ labours engender culinary delights
for an imprisoned dictator, while
physicists discover neutrinos beating light
at a dashing race, and Ladyhawke mutates to fly

over a nocturnal vagabonding wolf. I touched
water yesterday, white and cold, and I could
only imagine the enthralling moment when
spring will come and all shall liquesce

to replenish rivers and lakes, irrigating soils
for centenary trees to blossom once again
granting life to living creatures witnessing
the grand spectacle of perfectly attuned cycles.

I remember a dog with matted fur lounging in the shade
of a collapsed arch, staring in a way that animals sometime
stare that makes me wonder if the beliefs of Kantianism are
nothing more than old wives’ tales spun from smoke and cinder.

I remember the faint smell of sulfur mixed with seawater
in the shadow of the volcano that poured out its wrath
by the bowlful, the golden urns of the gods spilling
fire and magma from the very cradle of hell.

I remember the empty bathhouses, the villas with
half-painted frescoes, the expensive red paints made from
crushed beetle shells, the overturned tables and chairs,
the uneven stone streets carved by horse-drawn cart wheels.

I remember the skeletons huddled in boathouses,
unearthed from their ash-spun graves for prying eyes,
for the rapid shutter of camera lenses, for the proof
of their existence, as if to leer at the living and say,

“We are all nothing but carbon and bone.”