Mater Ecclesiae Abbey, on St.Giulio Island
A black jackdaw nests twigs
in that hole between stones
built as life and upright pinnacle
between world’s history and the eternal
Sober sisters are peace, joy and calm;
women, nuns and sweet hope
showing that life is possible, nice.
They’re the same holy spirit and song
Jackdaw is black and black is too the cape
of these so many mothers, that are
built as life and upright pinnacles
into history, yet in the eternal
St.Giulio Island, April, 7th 2019
Thorns again dress in white
in the evening, spreading sweetness
and life’s hope from nectar glands.
Winter stasis is over
Thorns dress sadness and white
in this evening of a dying world.
Life is smoke now, without
barycenter in which there’s hope
Thorns are naked and white
in the evening, wasting sweetness
given to dark coming soon.
I’m like question in a desert
March, 14th 2019
Photo by JB, 2014
Here we are again: a year more
fell due silently amid empty memories
that don’t give substance to this my present.
What is left of all travelled time?
Plum trees and buds wake up again, now
while I see new green in fields and woods.
Dry and dusty ground supports my steps
I think Easter is a far mirage
March, 17th 2019
JB, that night
I see us on that sofa, it’s night
we’ve a rest looking at our future
that awaits us and is full of sense.
Next September we’ll get married, so
You are on that sofa: it’s a moment
overlaid both to time and to space:
your background is the same yet it’s different.
Next September you’ll get married, so
Our link was young but sure and certain,
more than only beginning, prelude,
it was real and eternal fact
we so thought and so lived our love
So you are today, you, my son and
her, that’s new but real part of the whole
which we live and not only unclear hope.
God can hold your hand. You go on!
Bernina Hospice, February, 16th 2019
In that day, for the first time in my life, I did not go to my work to avoid snow chaos.
Winter ice freezes any trees’ shade
covering with thick and clotted frost fog
every branch, every trunk and this landscape.
In my heart I feel that rime and hoarfrost
Where are beautiful mountains’ white ghosts
which adorned my strange and flat sea:
the Po Plain waiting quiet for green life
dreaming any sap turgor of March?
Snow is now only an accident, chaos
really not virgin whiteness, it’s hitch
and I live into thoughts of old childs.
Lazy rest in the warmth of my bed.
Frebruary, 1st 2019
Italian versione here
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
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