The fourth candle

Today, at my home

 

The fourth candle lights up and it’s late:
like as usual it’s already here.
When I waited for, it was for wait
and I hid all my face to His light
 

This last candle I light up today.
It’s a memory of past that promises
future when I’ll can look at your aspect
without shadows and shame in my eyes
 

The fourth candle now shines while anger
rises everywhere; I shout it
and demand what I don’t. My life is
as a moaning consumed by nothing
 

There are four candles, they are red scarlet:
they are like lives that burn and both give
light, warm, love and too hope for the Grace.
I kneel down to the Child and His blood

 

December, 24th 2018

Italian version

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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

If I can

Photo by JB, 2018

 

Some anemones still bloom within
their companions that dry any fruit
fitting so life and hope to this season
that decrees defeat and silence too

Also larch trees cry yellow leaves now
among leftovers of tired grass
aimed at signs of next winter start.
Maybe I too can bloom, if I can

 

Toward Col Portola, August, 24th 2018

 

Italian version

Rustinsects

Photo by Terrygold

 

I’m lost in wonder: my friend Terry continues to improve her building and artistic abilities; her last work is this wonderful Rusted Farm so filled with strange and worrying insects, made with a full original style.

Here are my poor words for her work.

 

Rustinsects dusty and reddish of earth
burnt and dirty with iron’s dry blood,
nightmares monsters and maybe ourselves
walking slowly across far lost paths

 

Skinny spectres and tainted with dumb
sensitivity, corroded image
of us, the soft ones, with our feet
on the ground squeaky into blue hopes

 

SL, Casvian Caye, August 25th, 2018

 

 
Italian version

Dawn and sunset

 

Photo by JB, 2016

 

Maybe dawn can resolve any sunset,
vain world travel towards the main night
who wins us every day anyway,
like the nothing that dries up each thing
 

“Never” as well as “always” is not
nested word into mankind assets.
Someone else can define the absolute
and He lives it without a beginning
 

You elect me, my free jump provoking
as can water do running towards
fields that drink and give us their green life.
So I am if I belong to You
 

Beyond any idea, craving, wish
about what I believe and I can
You make me something possible, life.
Yes, You’re dawn that resolve sunset, night

 

Rimini, April, 20th 2018

 

Italian version

St.Sara

 

Salicornia rounds up herself reddish
in the flat sweep expanse filled with
salt that denies greener bright hopes.
Far I see St.Marie and its church
 

Life is eaten by salt, wind and time
every year and for years, for a lot.
It sits tired in a flat backdrop
longing for something that could protrude
 

Then beyond Little Rhone, then forward
where more water this water receives,
earth is fading into a liquid nothing
wall or pass to so different worlds
 

At the seashore strong violence gives
reason to sky and sea to be roar
against rocks and the stones of the port
that protect boats and reflux and me
 

Wind and water run over impulses
to be still, to be calm and to stay
as if everything were just like no thing
and each place were the same everywhere
 

There was time when Saracens came here
from that water, now only a background.
The church was both for people and bones
of the saints a safe fortress with crenels
 

In the crypt Sara waits among hundreds
of lights and she is hope for the ones
that now own no more place or that keep
too much lands in their heart. Here I pray

 

St.Marie de la Mer, April, 3rd 2018

 

 

Italian version

The rope

pics by JB 2017

 

Strange world, so different
from mine

All the skyline is changing: the city
is rebuilding herself without worry
about old stones. A church
sadly rests in the shadow

Over me there’s a climber, a worker
on an ice building made with glass, steel.
He clings on overhanging surfaces
without fear: in a thin rope he trusts

Strange people, so different
from mine

I like your so laborious constancy,
your smart way to be alive organised
I am only a poor provincial person
and can’t try to explain my sensations

I don’t know what you tell me while speak
your strange language or where is your God,
where you really are going toward,
what you quite want to build with your love

In the cold morning where I am walking
also I overhang all my claims
and a rope from above is my hope
to be safe despite bad, foolish drives

I am like those church wrecks on the tarmac
under new, haughty, bright towers now.
I beg that all these ropes can hold up
you and me. Can the hope bear our weight
 

London, April, 19th 2017

And finally the Italian version