Photo by JB, 2018
Modest redstart watches me behind
old wisterias and then comes down here
on loose gravel where frisks looking something
at the ground as I too often do
I feel birds’ joy and freshness that chirps
in the clear and bright light of the day
while I smoke slowly thoughts in the shadow.
Just this moment is beautiful God
June, 15th 2018
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
Photo by JB, 2018
Stock plant uses violence against silence
of the moderate stones that grasp greedy
tonight breaths of last sun on the hill.
Soon we’ll go back to Italy again
You’ll stay here, where you work, maybe for
a year that you’ll add to prior ones.
You’ll stay here to prepare your main hope
that is future and family: news
It is hard letting you could do it
like the wallflower lives on the stones
near the time marked there, on the tower
of the closed nice church. Never mind.
It is difficult standing apart,
son, and let you go, who knows…there
on each unknown road, you so, so new,
while we are old and heavy and closed
Our greatest strong prayer you are
you, together with your sister young.
May God help you to be, to be better
than I am, I who now line up rubble
Montferrier sur Lez, April, 4th 2018
pic by JB, 2018
Vivid red earth here burns and her blood
raises as violent cry to sky,
as a flame that begs for existence.
Ochres are a magnificent spasm
They shine as does the light in the deep
upset when a day starts, like life does
in the dark depths of woods
when they rise from the winter frost time
We were primitive, we were naïve,
like beasts innocent starved of senses.
With the hands and the earth here’s a dough
made by amazed, just early beauty
As this earth I beg You; my fragile
female flesh yearns for You. You graft me,
for You can, in the space of my way
while I ask never filled true matters
Roussillon, Le Sentier des Ocres,
April, 2nd 2018
I’m sorry, but I had to work a lot in the last days, and I was lucky to have the Xmas holiday to close an important project.
So, I could not share here my stuff each saturday, as I try to do from years.
Yet, now, I’m back again and I hope you will se soon my silly thoughts here, again!
I wish you all the best in this new year. I am so grateful to this blog that allows me to meet a lot of so clever and interesting people all around the world!
Judy, January, 15th 2018
as a life without sense
way not useful to go further, there,
ghost of roads on which nobody walks
it’s a badly made building,
yet a symbol of selfish to be
so each the other cannot ever meet.
Modern torture is cutting connections
We are alone in this poor darkness’ life
October, 29th 2017
Red blood of an exotic Woodbine
lights again at the gates of the winter
in the gardens and among the stubbles,
where it pierces thick veil made by mist
Vivid purple flares up so much violent,
as if be woman’s flesh grown up turgid
that screams looking for love satisfaction.
I see lips tremble, lying in the grass
Red and green: that’s the life resurrection,
and is filled with beauty at the dawn
till the evening when I come back home.
I’m in love and desire you tonight
October, 16th 2017