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.

Ice leaf

Thies beautiful image, described by nice words, is from this beautiful blog

Ice leaf, life
is no more into your green blood now
burnt and brown as dead ground

 
Tree leaf left
in the winter frost glass
that remembers when water flowed down

 

Leaves and lives
fossil signs of my soul
dreams and hopes about age without falls

On Seedbud blog,

December, 11th 2018

 

Here there is something in Italian about the same argument

A wren tries

I took this photo on February, 9th 2018

 

Days already get shorter and evening
runs to win leading us towards nights
with their sad load of dark feelings and
filled with boredom and mood of gloom
 

A wren tries timidly to throw colours
using his minute song while clouds now
dripping inhibit impulses to
any full turgor of summer life
 

I dream of dead who are now so many,
I confuse them with the living ones.
After which I see you in twilight
and your tender light breath calms me again

October, 29th 2018

Italian version

Yellow straw

Photo by JB, 2018

 

Yellow straw tells me old story
about seasons and work, about fruits
Now it dries at the sun, useless, dead
tired gold poured down on the fields
 

You cut straws for me once, in my prime,
inside mature wheat stem, in the summer,
you told me about butterflies, bees
leading so my young life to its bloom
 

Now I am in the evening of days,
as sail broken by slaps of bad wind.
I know that you are alive and you are better
yet I wish here your strength, your strong hand

July, 4th 2018

 

Italian version

Ballerina

Pic from here

 

Discreet dancer, you rely upon many
long and thin glass pale wires
and vibrating reflect any breath,
even whispers of black dying flies
 

Growing old while days pass,
your soft silk becomes dusty and grey
as opaque cut out of so lost space,
glue of past times, disuses
 

Ballerina (*). From your corner you look
at my world while it hurriedly passes
towards where it doesn’t know. You don’t think
and your eyes reflect alien black frost

 

June, 3rd 2018

(*) Longbodied cellar spider is named “Ragno ballerino” (Dancer spider) in Italian

 

Italian version