Now it’s cold

To my mom

Now it’s cold, here is cold
while we walk toward winter

All is cold where you walk toward were
I don’t’ know, you don’t know,
only hopes

Only hopes, holy thoughts, our faith
while you walk toward Him

I know that He loves you
so you will be together
with your husband: my dad
and your brothers, because
you are the latter

Now it’s cold, here is cold
while you walk toward winter
toward more light, maybe.
Toward more light: I’m sure

November, 20th 2021

Windows of spring

DSCN1426-min

JB, 2021: one of those Great tits around my house

 

As a window of spring, some Great tits
came again near my home and now chirp
whilst my time runs to solstice, when dark
wins each day against light, more and more

As a window of spring your green eyes
came again near my face and my lips
met your mouth, in the dark, before that
sleep won against my mind and my hands

We need windows of spring in the life
where we run toward dark, pain and death.
Green grass, trees, Tits and you are refrains
in the song of my life made by God

 

My home, November, 13rd 2021

 

Gaslight

 

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JB 2021. Horror Museum: the last SL Terry work

Kristine suggested me this intriguing word: gaslight.

She also sent me this link, because I did not undersand what she meant. This is my silly joke (?) about it.

 

Gaslight might
be as an evil sight
burning air
old trace of
something live
no more fight
Death who bites

Gaslight is
something old,
aged word with weird taste
in the night

A pale lamp, steampunk stuff
something yellow
in the dark heavy fog
at the docks
pain and blight

Maybe ill brightness as
a thin cloud
like a bad fairy light
lost and creepy landscapes
maybe green, maybe yellow
as a ghost
maybe like fireflys cloud
otherwise
will-o’-wisp
bluish flame on wild field
a fire that does not burn
greenish grass or dead shrubs
dried plants
fruit of hidden decay
underground, rubbish rot
corpses trace

Gaslights change colours, things
make reality weird
so we fail, full of doubts.
Someone acts like gaslight

Psychological crime
that ruins our minds
in this new bad pale world
making me be unsure
about me
falsifying real life
and reality too

Puzzling fire, scary fire
sign of death
with no smoke
a ghost that has no face
without shape

Gaslight might
be as an evil sight
burning air
old trace of
something live
no more fight
Death who bites

 

my home, October, 7th 2021

 

Terry’s Empty chairs

Terry empty chairs Cover

My friend Terry made into Second Life this art installation, where as usual she is her model. It moved me, especially for the sweet sadness and the melancholy of all the installation, that looks at something no more (or not yet?) there.

After I wrote my text, I knew that Terry dedicated her installation to her dad.

 

(to Terry with affection)

White smooth skin, baked clay,                    1 Terry empty chairs Terry
modest and statuesque, you wear
only crimson nail polish.
A mask always occludes your mouth

No words and no caresses,
no kiss can warm your lips
sealed in stunned stasis.
Each thing is only silence of absence

You’re alone, wandering empty rooms,
with no friends, mates, companions around.
Antique pink on the walls contrasts with
your so pale, delicate, marble flower

2 Terry empty chairs Frames

 

Black frames say deep dark space:
they tell it as thick, worrying
empty sockets that lost any memories
about who lived there, into their picture

 

3 Terry empty chairs Garden

 

You do live a green dream, colours and
gentle birds hovering in the air
like a breeze thickening nice presences,
chirps that are given to joyful love

 

4 Terry empty chairs prospects 3

Then a spectrum of empty prospects,
lifeless too, follows the garden where
there are colours and light and birds, joy:
follows it, closes it with stress, anguish

Benches sit down inside a dark park
and so many chairs stacked or spread
through the empty night streets, waiting for,
without one who enjoys or lives them

 

5 Terry empty chairs Vespa

 

Like those chairs, an alone empty Vespa.
You watch it, maybe thinking of someone
dead, not here, maybe a friend that taught you
to fish,
when you were only a child

 

A strange feeling makes turgid my breasts
as I look at your so gorgeous body
I’m lame and very small and I feel
your skin close to me and it’s ice cold

 

SL, Osta Nimosa, August, 24th 2021

 

Italian version

Homeless wave 2

homeless wave

Homeless wave, by AtélieKemi

 

 

I dream of a wild, a giant wave
white foam shaking the deep blue immobility:
stagnancy
widespread on ocean bottoms

I am the wave and I wander restlessly
with no place to sleep quiet,
without peace in the senses; my body
grows old and yet it craves caresses

Each of us is the wave, and we’re restless
if love doesn’t touch us, if anyone
never looks at us with sharp desire
to be one with us in sweet embrace

There’s no peace for the wave in the world
of concrete yet distracted earth things.
The Reality is larger than what
forces us and cages us: it’s the death

 

 

May, 1st 2021

 

(English version translated from the original Italian one)

Dohmangreda

Dohmangreda

 

Dohmangreda, by AtélieKemi

 

Silky turgor on your skin
stretches tremors of that May
when each thing went toward life:
grass and trees and naïve young girls

Silky turgor on your skin
yet your breast withers so fast
where are now all your past springs
where your surge and needs of love?

Had you love during that time
when you lifted young firm breasts
in the pride of your fresh years
now lost like each rose loses petals?

A sick pallor grows on you
and a cap hides your thin hair
yet your mouth blooms and it’s a
brilliant explosion of red

It’s reminder, regret or
will to win against the time?
Maybe it’s a dream, blind hope
that denies these current things

Like you I am fooled trend
caged by old memories
Thus I lose my present life
and dye hair and certainties

 

SL, Osta Nimosa, April, 8th 2021

 

Italian version

Lazarus’ Sunday

JB, now.

Well, I think it is very silly to share captions to some words, yet I must say that this is the first time I tag a stuff with coronavirus and apostasy too. My first time. I see a connection there and I must shout it.

Thank you Kristine for your contribution to open my eyes. Thank you. Be good.

 

This my dying vine sprouts
dry brown buds on wood branch
without lifeblood or hope
to be tender green leaves

There’s no more spring in mankind,
in this endless and soft feral feria
enveloping us in a pale stuff
where each thing becomes laziness

Lazarus also sleeps, still in silence,
bloodless and under white linen shrouds
waiting for life that is still suspended.
Anyway, all we are now death sick

I’m my dying vine with brown
sprouts that dry on branch wood
without lifeblood or hope
to be tender green leaves

First of all, it is not this disease
to bite life: it is sloth that fades us
like confused grey fog and cancels
every bud rush toward flowers burst

What I say is the world of rich’s evil,
sin of those who enjoy present-days,
even if dull, whilst deny salvation.
I am guilt like apostate is.

I am that dying vine and no sprout
I show but dry ones on my branch wood
They are without lifeblood nor they can
show a hope to be tender green leaves

 

March, 21st 2021

Italian version

There is always a sunset

There is always a sunset, by

 

here is always a sunset because
each dawn sun rises higher again
to ensure that we are still alive
in this world made for us by you, Lord

Pain and joy are so close in this way
where we walk sometimes also with friends;
someone comes, someone goes far away…
someone dies… I remember each of them

There is always a sunset; sometimes
it’s the death of each light: everyday
light arises then falls in that pit
bottomless where dark eats everything

Let me think to that long lasting night
without sun, northern, or even worse:
to that infinite dawn that aborts
without shining of full light: a failure

Maybe it’s a sort of dirty  trick
where someone plays against us: a game
to confuse our poor minds with suns that
do not carry out their true purpose

Sometimes our life goes toward that dark
as if we were unable to do good
as if we were poor lives that escape
without beauty or love, without joy

I saw your so bright sunsets, so shining
filled with red and orange and blue
filled with joy, alive, artworks that
show us all that light that we all need

 

February, 28th 2021

 

Today (May, 7th 2021) I updated my stuff above according to my dear friend Leda suggestions

Black and lead

Pic found here: thank you.

 

Black and lead: it’s your flight, big grey heron
in the hoary substance of air
firm and tired in this new November
to which we are fast going. To the dead.

You were archangel when Leonardo
gave wings to the Annunciation that world
would be saved and redeemed by Christ.
Today I look at you, sadness weaving

 

October, 31st 2019

Italian version

Life is stronger

JB, that day

 

Red cliff falls so fast into deep blue
cobalt and it is as wasteland ruins
where past life died out ages ago
shredded due to each torture by time

Into salty cracks now there are roots
of tenacious and yellow trefoils
mixed with austere sea fennel, strong,
which new green spreads across these dry breccia

We disturb seagulls and they develop
agile flight toward to sky, against
wind and flooding the air with their calls.

Life is stronger than nothing. That’s all

Saint Raphael,
April, 27th 2019

Italian version

 

You can find here more informations about this holiday.