Interludes of poetry

Dream through haiku

2011-10-18T18:50:00.002+01:00

A bench
on horizon
leaf shadow,

a hairbrush of love,
the kind that takes
breath away,

chokes, frees.
Slam the door open
to daylight.

(letter d rebels)

April 28th 2011

I haven't read the news yet.

I hold a little bird that just flew back
from a vision of bruises on alliterative dusk,

dandelions in cement cracks,
a devil with fork drawn on the top side
of the boat-- no fish today.

A newspaper page
next to violet daisies.
Ah! narrow road toward the sea.

Who said it was spring

2011-10-18T18:46:00.001+01:00

I'd like to start
from the beginning,
end at the end
like Alice in Wonderland

without rushing
all the time, though.
A frameless picture:

a fisherman
who has to patiently wait,
maybe return home
with no catch.

That's how we all
feel sometimes.
I do anyway.
Naked under the rain,

soaked with enlightened
spits from hell
when it should
be heaven.

Jazz session

2011-10-18T18:17:00.001+01:00

There's no use really.
What I mean can't be
written in few words
with lipstick or fire.
A fly buzzes around
this moment of stop
everything, nothing exists.
It's only a box
made of flickering
sounds out of clown lands.
Sleep revolves, too--
secret truths you could
die or live for.

War child

2011-10-07T14:18:00.000+01:00

Leaf

why can't I be you,

fall and resurrect

in the breeze?

Thechild wakes.

Herdoll is missing

fromunder her pillow.

Shewould kill

tohave it back.

Shethrows a stone

ina rivulet of leaves,

dies.

Does heaven exist?

Godsline up

behindthe sun

liketoy soldiers

ona shelf.

Two fish pretending to be humans

2011-09-09T13:36:00.002+01:00

At breakfast I'm sure other thoughts
could surface, besides horror
or speculations on intrinsic behaviours--

the various and mostly useless
explanations to life's events.
My frothy coffee: a dirty ocean
in a tub with play boats and a duck.

I'm a sailor, too.

On the horizons behind hills
where sun is a memory
and yellow is the colour of depths
we met

and spoke like philosophers:
about fear, the meanings of everything,
the contradictions in human nature.

One night we swam apart,
sore-finned and hungry, leaving
our cases behind.

A semi-abstract swarm of birds

2011-09-06T13:29:00.005+01:00

I am letting my brain

fly free on the horizon:

a white bandana covers

a scar on the right side,

below the hairline; a tiny

crescent moon decorates

the left corner. The rest of me

is a shadow. A child's voice

cries: I am guilty. Please,

save me. I am neither

an angel nor a devil.

I'll allow you to drag me

through dirt, arrange yellow

flowers on my kitchen table,

poke fun at me.

There's a stone with eyes

and ears. For days

I collected all sorts,

compared them to traumas,

wasp bites and wisdom,

put them in a vase of sun.

Writing identities

2011-09-06T11:28:00.005+01:00

I started out as
a shadow leaning
over a fence,
observing myself
closely

as though I were trying
to untangle
a rhetorical figure
from the tiniest

moon. I smiled,
half-mesmerized,
half-stunned, wondering
about the meaning of anything.

I was in the middle
of a rainbow,
a place of oz,
where the unconscious
dissolves,
a troubadour without a name,
an origin or identity.

I erased the words
I had written some time ago;
yes and no and back
to the first time,

the first step--
like walking on the moon,
a snowball in my hands.

Conversations at the dinner table

2011-09-06T08:39:00.008+01:00

A low humming
harmonica fills the air
in this late summer

morning, rises over a distant

mountain, a stone house

where I left a poem.

Again, I will recite the soliloquies
of Shakespeare, as if I Miranda,
Juliet, Ophelia,
could change the world.

Truth is an echo in the middle
of the sea, corpses floating

like pieces of old wood.

Time is one long day
that ends with a murmuring sigh.

Everyone's still asleep.

A new act begins.
Something has gone wrong.

Repeat -- I believe what I'm saying --
repeat
repeat.

Was is it a memory?

2011-09-04T10:04:00.033+01:00

When it stops raining

the world is no longer a memory,

it's a kind of revolution.

Like all the pictures I've taken--

they have no titles.

How about this one:

Lie on the rug of intentional cloud soft any colour

will do.

Stretch out and cry

with the dead.

I don't know.

Yes! A sort of revolution.

The opposite of brainwashing;

nonetheless, background music

has its appeal.

Neurons fallen from clouds

are now fireflies.

Spermatozoa
fight one another
for rain.

There's a nudist
beach behind the hill.

In Capri you can forget who you are.

The Greeks were naked,

so was everyone

who came after,

the smell of sperm

washed away.

Mug and sweat

2011-09-03T14:55:00.008+01:00

That was the only time

I couldn't find the way to the stars.

I woke up and the whole sky was pressing

against my body, suffocating, taunting

about how I was a loser,

a spider hiding in a dead end

transparent wall--as cold as a frosty morning

on a January work day. So I rebelled.

After having watched The Last King of Scotland,

and repressed ideas of heavens on earth,

I planned to carry out a research

on the psychology of a dictator

such as Idi Amin, and dictatorship.

I've called it running

through a tunnel of deceit

where flowers blossom at night.

to the bell-samphire

2011-07-26T12:10:00.021+01:00

violet bell-flowers, what little scruffs
vetch, what dead ground
Steve Parker

summer has melted inside a bell-flower

I rub my skin with its dreams

fall naked to the hot chilli earth and cry

elves of the woods:

make a song of the sea

wake the night from consonants in petals

invent a name for this flower here

scream after each orgasm on the dead land

someone looks for the bell-flower

Google

2011-03-27T22:38:00.006+01:00

on the different kinds of clouds
that have obsessed various artists

and writers
over centuries

the origin of the word cloud
the films they're showing
the new films they're showing

the films they're not showing
an alternative to the new films they're showing
an alternative to waiting for the new films

the title of any film
the leading roles
the director

an Oscar Wilde quote
a quote about Oscar Wilde
a trip to Alaska

a safari

house block

2011-03-27T22:27:00.006+01:00

it's like falling in love

with the hunchback of notre-dame

the whistle coming from the back

of the bus is a reminder that all
the personal pronouns

have found a seat at the front

the middle is left for out of mind
out of place out of identity stops

there's no more

chocolate pudding left
in the fridge

and the shop just closed

and love is a flight of stairs
in a painting called
where to live

answer yes or no

2011-03-27T22:12:00.006+01:00

Are you into maple syrup or rap dancing around the corner?

What about eating corn on the cob at a summer festival

being romantic when it's not your thing at all

buying a new dining room table

dying your hair shocking red

tasting frog legs or snails for the first time

learning how to scuba dive

attending yoga lessons

day after full moon

2011-03-22T07:38:00.001Z

there's only one way
to climb a mountain
under rain

keep your eyes open and carry
it on your back

this is about trains
the noise they make
when they swish by
with a rope

dangling on one side
half hidden in leaves
and seem to speak
about creation

sadness or the last time
the top tree branch
swayed to laughter

how to paintbrush your life

2011-03-21T12:39:00.001Z

it rains you're depressed
nothing is what you think
or maybe it is

you go round saying
how much you like
dried field wildflowers
leaves and lavender

fresh violet ones when
the day’s jazzy different
shades under a tree

today a black wool jacket
black half finger gloves
your long scarf brushes

across a table
a beer at dusk
loud voices

all of a sudden the silence
sort of chokes you
everyone’s gone

except you and the one
you’re talking politics with
as you pay you decide

you’re going to put the flowers
in that green decorated vase
you won at a fair

you think of the last time
you had sex
it was like the first

you love when that happens
flowers blossom out of your body

it's already dark

2011-03-21T09:44:00.014Z

laughter isn't the only way
to communicate life
in the now

a stem-less margherita
floats in a streamlet

that's not what I meantthere's something
about your smile

as soon as someone
was about to talk politics
the margherita
got to destination

empathy of stars

2011-01-31T08:06:00.007Z

the tide stretches
over red

who's there
throwing leaves
instead of rocks?

go and come back

a hidden rose

2011-01-10T20:19:00.012Z

snow in a heap
of spring music

makes me wish
butterflies

the veneer of sugar
on bitter memories

a poem could be the answer

2011-01-10T20:17:00.000Z

as long as you forget about sky nuances
ice cream cones with syllable-stretched imagination
wanderings of any kind
that's not what you believe you're into

you only want to jump rope
because it's been years
and you were so good at it

one foot
one

and there it is
the sky falls and blocks
your vision of cement flowers

evening

2011-01-04T09:23:00.003Z

the softness of the sky
teases my eyes

I am at a loss
for words

and soon
it will be sunset

under the rain

2011-01-03T09:24:00.005Z

being three years old
takes me back to speaking
various languages while

licking a lemon lollipop under
a cold daytime sky
I had no worries about identity then

neither was it really that cold
I had never considered
how sad the whole world could be

that the sky could turn grey
before the time it took
to finish the candy

seconds can't be compared to clouds
nor waiting for something or someone

not what you'd expect

2011-01-02T19:16:00.010Z

sure I've hitchhiked a few times

once I was with mother on the way back
from a hospital check-up

another time I missed the bus
a guy stopped and I said I'd changed my mind
I'd walk

not too many on the road memories
more like abstract ideas of freedom
for example eating a chocolate bar
while waiting

tomorrow a poem

2010-12-29T17:49:00.003Z

how funny to think
that you can
squeeze a moment
into a line
of universal happiness

the first words
the last words
the spaces
the line breaks

right now I am
transposing
laughter onto
the page.

'tomorrow':
a bad title
for a morning poem

the word reflects
something I'm not
aware of
like the sky reflects water

Growing up

2010-12-29T16:43:00.019Z

Remorse can turn into
hate. Love can turn into hate.
Hate can turn into love.
Patience is sometimes impossible.

You want to begin all over: so begin
from the beginning, it sounds natural--
but then why doesn't it work out
the way you want it, where is the logic
in being, living?

I've spent too much time
trying to define beginnings,
ends, the journeys.

Images are voices in a dream.

Images are smoke, blood,
water. I identify with smoke,
blood, water. I float or drown,
it depends. I sing wildly
underwater. I sing
and drown.

It is easy to lose
reality. Blood is life or death.
I touch blood
with the tip of a finger.
Soul is sun. Soul is blood.

A little girl bleeds.
A plant is watered by menstrual blood.
Voices dream

and die.
It's all hidden,
alive. Here
in my sunshine hands
October came, October went.

in the seventies

2010-12-29T16:24:00.003Z

I'm into casual poetry
it's like skipping around the street
with worn-out shoes and a radiant
smile that never fades
because sometimes you just simply
regress and become as naive
as when you were ten
Nonna would force me to go
to church with her on Saturday evenings
I never complained
I knew Jesus loved me

and here

2010-12-29T16:07:00.022Z

let's play a game in silence
I will write my glances on a flower's shadow

kiss my selfish smile into tiny rainbows
tickle me here I am your Mona Lisa

two stars converse
with a takahe bird

I'm naturally lonely
I can't help being affected by stars

draw me a royal lily in clear water
a primrose in white sand

look up and fly
back to colour to fantasy

strong red table wine candlelight moonlight
black olives aioli bread crostini my spicy tongue

leaf

2010-12-29T11:54:00.006Z

at 11.15 everyone openly
expresses the desire
to trust the other

a leaf blows into mind
masturbations of gardens
of eden

don't trip
over its veins

they're starry
moon spits
held back

lost or found
you choose

august stars

2010-12-29T11:25:00.004Z

I'm not sure
how many times
or if ever

I've said
forgive me
for not knowing
you enough

yesterday
lying on sand
we counted falling stars
amazed and wondering
where they went

the next train to somewhere

2010-12-29T11:01:00.012Z

late evening star-filled window
tall evergreen

little one
blowing secrets to the wind

write me a song
and I’ll write back

and tell you why
everything will be okay

let's write on the tables of music halls
eat words on a moonlit sidewalk

go to the mouth of the river
where rainbows never end

soldier problem child gypsy
war inflation unemployment

a candlestick white curtains
saints and a business luncheon
Jesus dying on a lamp post

by then it was too late
to let the bird fly free

haiku chains of images will rescue us
let's wait in this corner
over here

if life were a flower

2010-12-23T08:34:00.001Z

of the words
I've missed
forgotten

invented
in the evening
I listen

to the earth
beat through
my feet

destination is a wish

2010-12-23T08:32:00.002Z

like a bellyache
sore feet, a heartache

a train glides
past stations

someone is waving
behind the window

I wave back

best to forget

2010-12-23T08:27:00.006Z

putting together our
words in a cup of tea

my sore throat
a clap of thunder
no rain

I keep
asking what you mean

october nightfall

2010-12-23T08:23:00.005Z

at this time of year
the lake

is a gaze of sad faces

but it's only
an impression
the air is still

I could walk in rain
hum the same song

resuscitate in a warm ocean
of little fish swimming

seashore picture

2010-12-23T08:19:00.006Z

I reach out
to touch it
now
and now

I never intended to be
here
but I am

(sorry if)
I get carried away
sometimes

I change its colour
the frame
language

all of me
reach out and touch
the wind

sunlit fingertips

2010-12-23T06:53:00.023Z

the farther I travel
from the spaces of my past
the clearer I can hear voices
and a melody here and there

a tame lion crawls
in tall grass
hides secrets under stones
goodbye my love, goodbye
till we meet again

you snowman
my friend
do you want to be rescued?

I'd melt too
reappear in a garden
where I learned
to distinguish the sounds of sighs:

mischief
fear
emptiness
anger
forgiveness

it was something like light/sing

2010-12-22T21:04:00.008Z

she digs up a few moon-beams
puts them in her bag
(too much there was
to choose but is no more)

when morning nothingness
sings of clarity (why would anyone
be a stranger here?)
it’s time to cross the river

sweet, wait for me

imagine
a sign language
of our own invention:
secrets of the womb
come out to whisper
feet-crushed wounds
arms branches of a tree

only when the sun has come down
the sun the moon late winter
more

when all the dust
has covered the sky
erase a star

another one
like tripping over love
over green
your own vomit
sit here

like begging to be rescued
from something
only then

sing again

summer's blossoming

2010-12-22T20:57:00.001Z

tender is all that comes to mind
and why
once more
why should I say
anything else

isn't the softness of the sky
enough?

the softness
and we're still alive

From The Grave-Digger by Gibran:
Once, as I was burying one of my dead selves,
the grave-digger came by and said to me,
"Of all those who come here to bury,
you alone I like ... you only come laughing
and go laughing"

I recently visited
my aging father
we talked about
how the seasons
wrap the truths of sailors
fishermen, sons
husbands, fathers, musicians
sometimes cowards
always brave

and about the taste of honey
between a coughing fit and another
the murmuring sea
behind us

you ask

2010-12-22T20:43:00.006Z

why a poem about being alone
no man no skin on top of skin
a blue satin sheet covering
only your legs your hands
as warm as the sky
your nipples
solitary stars
a soft pillow?

reggae
jazz
primordial
beats
so the rhythm
is not forced
nor violent
needs no preliminaries
flows naturally
from one verse to the other
wet by the dew

of course
you can watch
no, I'm not Juliet
Cleopatra
moonlight on white sand
nor an obedient bitch
I'm not lost in a deep wood
field of margheritas
virgins in bloom
a prince with a golden shield of promises
there to defend me
lick me
like a blueberry ice cream cone on fire

new hairstyle

2010-12-22T20:27:00.007Z

don’t make a fuss
over thunder

you got all soaked
after the hairdresser’s

forgot your car keys
had to go back

look at the sky

as an act of faith
toward yourself

you are tangible
not an abstract shadow

cast on the sidewalk
with its broken
painted graffiti curbs

your hiatus is over
no longer graze

but run, inimitable

thursday morning and the birds are singing

2010-12-22T20:19:00.009Z

yet it is not the right moment
to start singing too
about the whole of sky

mysterious sighs bursting
out of the earth

a day off
silent room
more to know

nothing more to know
than sun or murmurs
heard in memories

I swear by these budding sounds
I will rise now
and pretend wholeness
is hidden here in my arms

the garden of the Hesperides

2010-12-22T20:04:00.012Z

it's not a golden
apple orchard
made of sighs

Hercules spat
on its window
the dragon
chewed on the frame

it always blooms back
into something else

once it was a saviour
an umbrella over high tide

have the nymphs changed their minds?

seascape

2010-12-22T15:07:00.011Z

as if you were the last
unexplored space
I invent you

like a robin invents
spring anew
a trail of desire
rising from the horizon

I throw a pebble
one bead of sweat
flows away with the tide

it's a new day

2010-12-22T15:00:00.006Z

love rattles an ocean
opens like when Jesus
wrote a poem on water

every shadow
a magnet of forever
challenges itself
beyond the horizon
who is he?
who is she?
who are we?

who am I?

so it ekes out a colourless rainbow
soft against breeze

no one answers for now
it's too early to talk

or sing or follow
the hydra to ancient Greece

there on a hill
where the fire burns
daylight into the empty

sirens as silent
as fish

as sugar

2010-12-22T14:54:00.016Z

the poems and I
are having a revolution
under the sun

on my knees
I beg for truce

for the wind
to return
to tell me
I'm not alone

maybe we can rest awhile
before we catch
the next bus to calm
sugar station
mood sigh
get up

a music in the distance

2010-12-22T14:51:00.005Z

it rains in languages
buckets of holy

waterfalls
drown the landscape

spring gods never have enough
of sleep with their laurel hats
covering their eyes

it's going to be a silent day
only water-lilies on lake banks

the love poem I never wrote

2010-12-22T14:45:00.008Z

if I could go back
I'd let it write me

you are my pharaoh

serenading rock songs
under blue moons
we make love

you on top
my legs spread open
in the night sky
the moon's skin
our pillow

we lie on grass
away from light
or darkness

you offer me
another rock song

I wipe the sweat
from your forehead
with my lips

breathe countless ways
to love you
as many as the freckles
on your body

listen to the moon

2010-12-22T14:43:00.002Z

before the word
moon was invented

only the sound
of owls could be heard

they pretended
to be wolves in the night

the ocean tide was a network
of air and silence

this noise of keys
clicking on cave stones

if a rose could speak

2010-12-22T14:38:00.007Z

on some days a rose can speak
so the title is wrong

either way it alludes
to an interpretation of self

still
who am I to write
about roses
that can or can't speak

a non-conformist rose
is of a different colour than red

this yellow one
for example

when it rains
the drops compose philosophies
of despair
(you promised me the moon)

the rose ends up
in a basket of field flowers

we lose identity
what's left is birdsong

out of context

2010-12-22T14:36:00.003Z

a beginning
is when I stand
on the same invisible
line as always
try to keep still
and call it my revolution

the nows reappear in a poem

2010-12-22T14:29:00.018Z

so where are those places -
my hidden or not refuge
of lyrical outbursts
stories and images -

we can meet
and say yes
we are in the same place
where hands are feet
lips fingers?

even though
it feels like
a different world--
a cloud floating above

or below darknesses
I swallow moments

in an hour
I know I won't be the same person
as now
maybe I'm off my own tracks

like waking from a dream

2010-12-22T14:28:00.002Z

if only I could find
the beginning
maybe a rope
of flowers
any colour
or taste of sunset
melancholy elation while
my son plays the cello
it's just stopped
raining usual
thoughts of standing
in the middle of a puddle
enlightened
not enlightened
by a quote
from a favourite poem
which however
has deceived
not Bach
he's playing
in my ears

love

2010-12-22T14:22:00.010Z

say the word slowly

each sound
a pause

speak in languages
of stars

strange how the questions

unreel stillness

are the gods finally gone?

shadows twinkle

the dark away

hair ruffles the wind

it spills

over a falling star

each draw

of breath

a vanishing