Xilocopa

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Photo by me: that wistaria

Like solitary bee or a moth
that confuses her nights with each day,
anyway always greedy for scent,
my thought flies over wisteria flowers

My thought points itself as in racemes
on my wisteria hanging to ground,
drags me and it’s a so heavy thought
that would like to soar toward Your sky

Give peace and a more lively warmth
to my evanescent heavy flower
that’s a pale mirror to the deep sky
and, please, a clearer life
                                        and substance

May, 17th 2022

Italian version

Evil under the sky

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JB, February 2020

I wrote this stuff before the Ukraine war.

I know that evil begins into myself. It’s really not only a Putin problem.

February gives us longer days, gifts
when skies sink into a so deep rich blue
up there. Nothing dirties them now, anymore.
The wind blows away all smoke and sadness

God, how beautiful made your sky; February
today shares a so clear sun, a yellow
and alive party. Hug and relief.
May light win each night and bitterness

A whirlwind of air is a momentum,
shakes the cedar green from lazy sleep
of the immovable instants of winter.
Like that cedar, please solve my tiredness

It seems strange that could evil exist
pervasive, effective and so constant
under such a pure, beautiful sky.
Please God turn into strength each my weakness

February, 21st 2022

Italian version

Pink lake

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JB, January 2022.

Pink lake: eutrophic space,
simply mirror of sunset
blue when blue is the sky,
grey when grey, pink when pink

Beauty is there a reflection of light
even Tindall or Rayleigh game, joke
it’s substance of another
it gives us sky as gift

Pink lake rests in the plain
waiting for evening, night
while the lights of Mankind
pale and shy slowly start

I’ve no Beauty to share
when I’m only myself,
selfish skin filled with
my things, thoughts and hopes too

Pink lakes force us to watch
higher, up to the Sky.
Let me be pink and thus
be a mirror of God

January, 19th 2022

I’m that one

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JB, yesterday, after we made our nativity scene

 

I’m that one who now sleeps on the grass
near the heat of the fire freeing our
body and mind from cold thoughts
where so often each one can get lost

Both a shepherd or woman, doesn’t matter
we are the same deep down in our Mankind
strange and fickle and now very tired
fighting between emotions and reason

I’m that one and he sleeps near the warmth
of all common and usual safe things
I sleep while all the universe changes
while light and its true sense is being born

They say that the crib is from Benino’s (*)
dream and that he sees all our Earth
change its shape and substance and essence
up to be like a new paradise

Yet I’m that one who sleeps: I’m distracted
by my standard and permanent sloth
or by a sudden one that can reach
me just here while each thing resurrects

If You want, take me out from these weird
shadow days chasing gloomy solstices
while this cold rules all my queer odd world:
I’ll become what I am: only answer

 

December, 11th 2021

 

* Benino is a character of the Neapolitan nativity scene: he is the sleeper.

Italian version

Torn and thorns

 

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Pic found here, by Awentree

 

Torn
as an old worn white shirt
meeting thorns on its way
I am torn.
I’m bound, broken
and I’m naked and torn

Cold dry air hurts my skin
like ice breath from wastelands
Winter wins now my life.
I feel used up, worn.
I am torn

Thorns as bugs
bad black bugs
creep and crawl on my skin, tearing even
inside
where I’m torn.

Thoughts are thorns
scampering everywhere
as a frisk in my soul
to find what?
Pain and thorns

Come on, please,
come here soon
don’t let this advent be
sadness, cold, ripped skin
and soul torn.
Came on, please
be my whole

 

My home, December, 4th 2021

 

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

A white pain

Something soft, as grey mist
spreads across this small world
not like that red death mask
nor as black terror plague
sweetly it kills us now

I need eyes to watch in
I need hands to hold tight
I need friends to be close
I need love to be me

Something like a white pain
rides together with this
new weird virus and makes
mankind dull, forcing us
towards dreams

I need facts truly true
to be alive, to be far
from death innate in dreams
to be out
from that white without shape

Someone says that a man
resurrected by death
and He lives in his Church.


I decide to trust them
I need Christ who saves me
I need Him to change me
I need Him, to be me

Deep into
those clear eyes
I met Him
With those hands
He bears me
He was
is
in those friends

Unbelievable peace

April, 17th 2021

Blue primrose

Sorry for this bad photo, but it’s evening here

 

Blue primrose puzzled in climate trap
fought against frost and snow, still alive
in this rainy, gray and no cold day,
sharing colour as dark stifled smile

I’m like her in these so changing times
in this world I’m not able to know,
to understand as I did in the past.
In the winter sad garden I stay

Would you come again, frost of past days?
Would You come into me, to stay, God?
I’ve no bright colours, I’ve no green leaves.
In my winter sad garden I pray

 

February, 6th 2021

 

Now

 

This is from my 2020 nativity scene

 

Now He comes. He will come. He is coming.

Oh! He is here.

He is everything I need, everything each of us needs.

He wants  to be everything for everybody.

He is so, really so, really now, yet we are blind.

I ask him that my heart could know what my reason already knows, so that I culd live in peace.

I ask that also for my friends.

Merry Holy Christmas.

 

Italian version

 

 

Fog erases

I’m sorry… I was not able to post this stuff last week end, as usual …

JB, 2009

 

Fog erases each thing with its nothing
made by silence and moisture and grey
along a way that leads to new Christmas
to new facts, to new hopes, to new life

I drive my car and I look for trees,
for signs or something that have a sense
anything I can see, recognize
to solve troubles and doubts, to go on

I miss white and pure snow in this cold
of an alien, strange winter, unknown.
Out some virus is spreading pain, death
Come soon my Lord with your holy kingdom


December, 14th 2020