But time flows. So also 2023 passes

neve 2019-min

JB, 2019

 

Nothing else but convention, but time
always flows and I can feel it passing
in my withering flesh, in the faces
of those who are ahead and so distant

The year gone took again many people,
few were born and my hope is so thin
like wrong violet grown in some winter
shrunken soon in the grey of its cold

This my evil chokes me and this heart
weeps embracing the fog that pervades
every motion and gesture, each thing.
Even here you don’t take me so far….

A lewd thought rises, hugs, envelops
me as if I were sweetness and girl.
A crow flies in the air made as pond,
indistinct dullness, and now I groan

Wars and death, pain, dismay and so on
doze this jaded, weak self within me
who yet neither rests nor stays awake.
Wash away blasphemy: she advances!

 

December, 31st 2022

Italian version

These grey days. 2022th Christmas.

DSCN0810-min

My Christmas scene 2022, today. He will be there only in a few hours. Detail. JB.

A very strange Xmas, this one.

I pray above all for my daughter. Please, Jesus, come again!

Oh, I know you’ll be here again, as i know you’re still here.

Yet show us you. Show us the Beauty. Our beauty too. Please do it!

 

These grey days, this my grey,
this grey that enters us
paint, change it
into a blue hope, please, do!
That’s no peace but sad silence

Her eyes show gloomy sadness,
those eyes,
that were merry and beautiful and
that are beautiful now.
I see dismay and grey in her eyes.
You can change them by showing a path

These black days, this my black
This black that permeates days
paint it, change.
This black that smells as death,
death of those missed, those
that are too many now,
You can lighten with bright green of leaves

You are the light of a world that lost its
meaning during so cold winter night,
groping in useless gestures, grey ones:
so it learnt violence, wars

Get in touch again, now
I await for You, You
come for me, for her and
for everyone too: we are ghosts
of what You would like we can be. We
miss You. Come and light up all, please.
We are waiting for dawn

These grey days, this my grey,
this grey that enters us
paint it, change
otherwise useless passes,
winter of thrills and beauty.
Give us joy and bright colours

 

A very weird December, 24th 2022

 

Italian version

 

Long-tailed Tit

codibugnolo2b22bbis

I got this photo here.

Four Long-tailed Tits come here to rest
only a little on my Judas tree.
They are gentle and tiny, also fun
and like children are happy to live

Each Long-tailed Tit I see on my
Judas tree did survive to the cold
of the winter and now seeks for food.
They already feel spring on the air

As a Long-tailed Tit I wait for
better times hoping I could see them
after this winter where I now live.
I feel cold into my sad poor soul

Like a Long-tailed Tit I’m so frail
into my deep substance. I feel old.
I saw winters and springs many times
yet I’m waiting again for One. God.

February, 10th 2022

Tin wind vane creaks

Copia di IMG_1296-min

JB, 2009. No neat night, but that’s the same roof.

How the tin wind vane creaks
when the wind turns around
messy like without way
in this so neat dark night

It groans shrill and its face
turns the other way with
no point to look at, with
nothing that could be sense

I am like it when I
watch around without be
inside my gaze, so that
I long for useless lives

Following any changes
of the wind this clear night
makes my rusty heart creak,
useless life toward death

December, 27th 2021

Italian version

Give me

DSCN1876-min

JB our nativity scene

Give me reward again in the night
when it’s dark and I hug you and my skin
waits for you like a poor parched pool
to find peace at least for only an instant

Making love, tremors fill all my flesh
shaking it in my chest, belly and
everywhere. So, I burn, sacrifice
to that life really mattering, true

Give me you, all you and not just some:
give me your hands and mouth. Your mind
be with me only one, only substance
to show that I can truly exist

Take me quite as I am, take my evil
and the good which I can: it’s so little.
I am as a well, hole, a basin, pool
restless and edgy shorn of its fullness

Give me your eyes and thus let me see
where you look at the end of each thing,
there where all starts and all can begin,
there where lives God who made us alive

Let I can grow again and hold up
this my body and my spirit, tired
after years of great sloth and great pride.

On my knees, near the crib, each thing is

December, 13th 2021

I’m that one

DSCN1867-min

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

 

Now it’s cold

 

To my mom

 

Now it’s cold, here is cold
while we walk toward winter

 

Each thing cold where you walk toward were
I don’t’ know, you don’t know,
only hopes

 

Only hopes, holy thoughts, our faith
while you walk toward Him

 

I know that He loves you
so you will be together
with your husband: my dad
and your brothers, because
you are the latter

 

Now it’s cold, here is cold
while you walk toward winter
toward more light, maybe.
Toward more light: I’m sure

 

November, 20th 2021

 

Windows of spring

DSCN1426-min

JB, 2021: one of those Great tits around my house

 

As a window of spring, some Great tits
came again near my home and now chirp
whilst my time runs to solstice, when dark
wins each day against light, more and more

As a window of spring your green eyes
came again near my face and my lips
met your mouth, in the dark, before that
sleep won against my mind and my hands

We need windows of spring in the life
where we run toward dark, pain and death.
Green grass, trees, Tits and you are refrains
in the song of my life made by God

 

My home, November, 13rd 2021

 

Black Lake

Terry's winter land 2021

A pic I took in the last Terry’s work

(Thank you to my friend Terrygold for the last beautiful landscape she built in Second Life. This winter land remembers me a trip I did many years ago to a place in my Alps, Lago Nero – Black Lake. Soon I’ll post the sources of these words on my Italian Blog; they are very symple words that you can easily understand simply using the Google translator)

 

Frozen landscape tells me ice and snow,
speaks to me of past times and old stories
about young girls and boys just grown up
where all my time was hereafter and further

White nice splendour of silence and peace
it remembers me that day, now far,
when I went to the black lake and its
ice surface began to break in spring

Like the blood of red poppies among
fields of wheat my days bloomed and brief
is their time. Cover, snow, my old stuff!
Because life is a so little thing

White cold peace in the countryside, here,
when time stood still as did in that day.
My mind is young again, even now
my skin withers yet expects still love

 

SL, Mystic Bay, November, 6th 2021