There’s sun warmth

JB, 2010

 

After holidays and winter flashes
there’s sun warmth.
I stretch out legs and arms.
All around mist congeals and blocks my
world and landscapes, remaining pale there

I begin to feel older myself,
to realize my acts are now more slow
despite my flesh that throws my mind far
toward young girl’s thoughts and toward dreams

I compressed emotions, a life
which now overflows causing this upset
that disturbs both my brain and my flesh,
old yet learning me as maiden stuff

Where did go years I spent, time I lost
without kisses and cuddles or smiles,
filled with duties and jobs that I now
feel so dry, feel so cold,
feel as lack?

I’m ashamed of so many words I
group with pens on sheets I hide, unknown:
those are outbursts of people I am,
schizophrenic mind without good drive

Other people are into my deep,
men and women that sometimes like flares
can arrive to my eye to look out:
here’s thus laughs, sometime cuddles
                                                           I can

 

February, 14th 2020

 

Italian version

 

Precious love

 

My Precious love can only come from above
In unity is born a kiss of dignity
My Precious love will only come from above
And there you wish away
And with the least they met
You love better
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love

Space weaver,
by Lisa Gerrard

My friend Kristine Blackadder told me about a strange song: Space weaver, by Lisa Gerrard. I listened to that song and saw its video. A woman dances, alone in an empty space; she wears a very large black dress. She keeps her hands near her hips and her arms are bent, so I can imagine two eyes, two gaps of light in the black of a mask. Her body is also bent, as to simulate a nose protruding from a mask.
A black mask.
The song flows and the woman dances until that mask seems to vanish and the woman becomes what she really is: a woman.
She becomes herself, without any mask and far from any dream.
An expression recurs obsessively, maybe as a prayer invocation, surely as expression of ineffable desire: Precious love. It is repeated twelve times.
Well… that’s my true love story.
Because my precious love came me from above.
Because when I met my precious love I found myself as unity.
Because my precious love gave and gives me dignity.
Because dignity and love grew and grow again as unity.
Because I saw and see what to love means.
Because I became me, taking off any mask.

I breathe words

 

I breathe words in the fresh wind that strikes
my face and messes up all my hairs
in the spring mornings when winter runs
far away and you are my desire

Words choose me and they give strength and form
to my wandering roaming strewn thoughts.
I don’t look for them: I find and see
them, they chase me at their whim

I collect from somewhere words in summer
going through mountains, into your eyes
full of peace, in the steps that so much
bring us toward the high sky we need

We have not to hunt words; just wait for
them that reach us across lives and time flow
and watch them changing into nice prayer
like clots filled and charged with meaning

I chase words and autumn rain turns
itself lighter becoming soft smile
as when evening mist poses on green grass
while I run to you asking for you

 

October, 14th 2019

 

Italian version

Blackristine song

Take care, my friend.

I don’t know if a veil
can be a lie, can be a jail
hiding and trapping well
what I am in my hell

I need what I don’t know
maybe love, maybe more
I’m alone in this world
I’m my rain falling down

I would like sing nice words
free my soul, fly as bird
yet that red purple moth
seems a wound on my mouth

I shake my body hard
with no sense. I move hands
like a child with no dad.
Pain is my name so far

I don’t know, maybe a veil
can be a lie or a jail…
My mask falls down to earth
I show you now my heart

 

October, 1st 2019

Winter dream

(Photo by Melania)

Silly words born while I was chatting with a friend about a landscape built by Terrygold.
Maybe not silly at all.

What’s a winter dream? It’s as a scream
made by shadows that cover as cream
my frost skin; shivers’ stream
runs like hopeless bad sin
 

What’s a winter dream? It’s a flash, gleam
that moves me to be silly and write reams
clinging to thoughts rerunning same scheme.
Winter dream is too much my own theme
 
 
 
SL, Casvian Caye, January, 12th 2019

Blue light

Photo by J.B., 2018

 

Blue light, she is reflected by water:
dragonfly turns around and the pool
is her whole universe so contracted.
She doesn’t know about Dolomites, there

I too go around, trapped days
of the norm that dulls every sense,
where I lose both Your world and Your Beauty
and I waste all my life and its meaning

Malga Valchestria (Brenta Dolomites), August 4th, 2018

Italian version