Windshield

 

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I wrote today stuff after I saw Catherine pic and words on her blog, here. This pic is by her.

Our eyes often cannot see how
the real world is, as when falling rain
flows across window’s glasses so that
all things change into hazy pale forms

And so often my eyes don’t see how
real things, people and thoughts truly are
as when rain falls on my windshield and
changes roads to perverted bad dreams

Human eyes seem built to do not see
the world that is beyond their small glasses
rough and imprecise shapes of each thing
become dream, nightmare, not real facts

Please, cut off cataracts from my eyes,
from my mind so that I will can see
iuxta propria principia Your world,
finding in it my true sense, my way

 

on the WEB, visiting Catherine blog, October, 15th 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

 

To my daughter

 

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JB 2021, The Twins (near Alimonta Shelter)

 

You run nimbly, joy and freshness spreading,
aware of your so young and firm muscles.
On the path sloping down among stones
I see myself in you and tail you

Then my legs give in and I can not
keep your young rate and follow your steps.
You go away and I slow down, laughing.
My time gets shorter, yours rises higher

 

Coming back from Alimonta Shelter, August, 9th 2021

Italian version

Subimago

 

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JB 2021, Val Nambrone

 

I don’t care if each step is a pain,
maybe due to a sore leg sinew.
Each peak of Brenta Dolomites smiles
while white clouds gentle mantle its rock

Here and there icy, clear water cuts
somewhere, sometimes my path, breaking off
fords and bridges, so -forcing delays.
Wealth of splashes is wonder

Last days rain filled streams, filled floods
and they vent showing powerful joy.
In the crystal clear ponds I can see
mayflies, pearls, and white Geridae

They will rise – it is time – from the water
sub-images and images fully made:
they’ll be light, a new fluid to enjoy,
tiny ascending as dance in the air

Fleeting sub-image, I dance like them.
I too would like to cast off my skin
old and tired and beautiful rise
truly how You made me: it’s my song

 

Milegna, August, 5th 2021

 

Italian version

 

The stream gurgles

 

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JB 2021, that day, bridge to Milegna

 

The stream gurgles fresh things, song of water
running down draining hornblende crystals
that are dark, black and blacker than places
where I plunge my poor mind every night

I smoke and I enjoy the sun lying
as a lover, down, on the green grass.
While I rest in the shade I remember
a spring gushing from stone: it’s like ice

Today rain’s water kissed my hair
imbuing me everywhere, flowing through
all my neck and my shoulders and back.
Even that rain was a tender lover

So I walked there, my steps were sure,
I went towards soft clouds, higher up.
I found my muscles warm, strong again.
I feel life rise again and it’s great

 

Casa Faé, August, 2nd 2021

Italian version

 

P.S.: I know that “to gurgle” is intransitive: it’s so also in Italian language. Yet I really wish to write what I wrote. Sorry.

Rain’s relief

 

JB 2021, that day, there

 

This was the beginning of my last holidays

 

Beech trees show pitch-black foliage today
and smooth shiny trunks like marble columns.
The rain falls softly everywhere,
relief of each wild beautiful green

A dark gap leads into the woods, where
coolness thickens grey ghosts
that a breeze gently frays.
They are spirits of mine, from far years

I was young and perhaps I was cuter
and more nervous in my stronger muscles
I pursued my pride running so fast
and both silent, and wild and so foolish

Well, I’m here, and my holidays starts,
while my mind is erasing all frills
that make hard each the days of my year.
I am free and dissolve in the air

Also larches turn soft and thin branches
towards the ground and I indulge them,
so I lay my arms beside my hips.
I breathe water and air and feel good

 

Casa Faé, August, 1st 2021

Italian version

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

Each thing shines

 

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Pic from here

I wrote this stuff at first in Italian language, then I wrote this English version. That’s no merely a translation yet something new.
A nice surprise, for me

Each thing shines as life is light itself
grass and trees and the lake and small towns
also white rocks drink light, they that old
age and water vibrate hard chalk skin

Sharp cries by some cicadas from trees
increase feeling of distress and warmth
to be awake in this pale summer day
so that I am as a weak bankrupt doll

There’s a spot of vermillion down there
it’s an Indian shot happy for sun
giving its colour as gift to us.
I sit while my mind goes far from here

A church’s bell rings measuring the time
while it gives it a sense, a way, paths
where to go to be really life, light
for those that want find truth, beauty, God

Then a soft gentle breeze wraps my face
giving me refresh, relief, solace
whilst a large butterfly comes from woods
flying around me, buzz and Indian shot

I see: one is the life, it goes from
winter to summer, always again
yet it runs endless across the time.
I feel sap and blood flow as are friends

 

July, 24th 2021

 

A naughty dream

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Pic from the web … sorry I lost its link!

 

 

Show me now your pink crimson, your beauty
without silks or skin veils, without frills.
Your mouth know every inch of my body
firing up each thrill, shiver and spasm

Our chests grow as wishes, together
like wild needly young flesh waiting for
sister’s breath to confuse with, to mesh,
to mix close to be one and same feeling

Is this crazy dream evil, is sin?
When I’m sleeping I cannot control
my emotions and sweet senses that
upset a poor mind sometimes so empty

Our need is a violent passion
I’m a basin that asks to be filled,
that is seeking for a sister basin
where love could enter to solve desires

Is this just a bad dream? Is it worse?
Am I wearing wrong mind mask or else?
Maybe years ago was a mistaken
identity to cage me so I’m

So I play, heroin into novels,
and I think myself wrong and each night
I’m stuck into my novel I write:
that’s a new trap, a cage, that’s a lie

Is this weird and perverted world to
puzzle me like each people here, now.
It’s the realm of The Prince of the world
it’s a lie, it’s a dream, it’s a fake.

 

July, 11th 2021

Italian version

The calla

JB: the new calla

 

In my garden the calla was yellow,
yet now purple it came back this year
and it’s larger, a bloom of tall leaves
with those spathes of violent flowers

Only few things are strictly coherent
with themselves and their substance
so that a lot goes changing so often.
Thus, the essence of facts can be fickle

I would like the world stable and pretty,
fitting to what I carry inside,
to the instances of meaning and peace,
to myself, poor collection of moments

I know that You are and rule everything
even the much I don’t understand.
Let me be where you call and want me
make me useful, not vain silly instinct

June, 27th 2021

Italian version