workshop
Singed edges, ancient pages,
faded vellum paled by time,
the ever growing patina of our dreams,
there written in the minds of every man and woman,
this secret book of words, not ever spoken,
allowed to be quite silent, still, unbroken,
what gems, what horrors,
what is hidden from out eyes, a wealth of thoughts
that always come to nought,
and yet their meanings have been useful now and then,
when needed by the host;
perhaps becomes the language of our ghosts.
Standing at a crossroads
not knowing which way to turn
one could be salvation
one crash and burn
No control over his life
drugs and alcohol addicted
all his vices self-inflicted
pleasing anyone who'd buy him a drink
not much lower could he sink
Rehab or an early grave
a decision he could no longer stave
to his addictions a slave
before the wave broke causing death and destruction
the dogs fled inward from the coastal stations
knowing the worst was yet to come,
desperate to save themselves, saw some
men unlike the animals gazing out to sea
Wondering at the sudden tranquility.
The beach had suddenly become vast
waters receded, fish breathing their last
Man not realising till the wave churned
All were engulfed, some never returned
just about great
poets must compose
so that many continue to search
the heart of the creator at that moment
I step into the soul of my subject
to imagine how I'd feel
had I been the one in that situation
none-the less,
each one must have one’s own fibre
to brave the knife
the sword,
the curse
the slicing tongue
how can I ever be all in one
so my feelings are the outcome
of one’s peculiar situation
as at that moment
Neapolitan [language of my maternal side]
FENESTRE
Apra ‘e fenestre
Vuoglio sentí
cantà o mare
vuoglio chiangà cu lluna
a soja malinconia
Apra e fenestre
Lassa vení a nnote
fa trasí e stelle
no core
Lassa fora a morte
STANDARD ITALIAN
FINESTRE
Apra le finestre
voglio sentir’cantare
il mare.
voglio piangere
colla luna
la sua malinconia .
Her captors did not hesitate
To desecrate and mutilate
Her consercrated cavern.
Now it lies,
Rent as the tomb of Christ,
And crying out
With Abel's voice.
The less taken path
Is her open grave,
The dry bush is her wreath.
The marching ants
May pay her homage
With bits of cockroach legs.
The crickets sing a requiem mass,
The spiders weave her shroud,
The blinded earthworms silently
Declare a solemn feast.
you comment on my works
and
I shall yours as I always too
you ring my door bell
as others do....
then neither one of us will be alone
I promise you
but once in a while
when a guys guts ache
and so one is lonely too
and
when the docs at the gate
a pregnant lady is not lonely
isn't it so true?
So friends and friendly ones
when you are lonely and blue
who else can you think of
but a friend that have you
that;'s who,
you now know too..
I wrote your name in caps and bold
on sheets of gold
to simply glow
to tell and show.
You wrote my name on withered sand
with shaky hand
when winds then blew
and left no clue.
So guess in peace you forced my heart-
my dearest part
to face a fate
before its date.
Coward!
You brandish your bloodless sword
in the congregation of the feeble
and you dance naked
in the gathering of the blind.
You chant your victory songs
in the assembly of the deaf
and tell of your virility
in the beds of a thousand crones
War!
Your tail is lost between your legs
and your baritone thaw into murmur
with eloquence in shadowy places.
Oh man!
When shall your testes descend?
An affair is brewing
Breaking up complicated
too much to arrange
solicitors, family, pain
I just need something
our sitting room (internet cáfe)
is stifling, smothering
communication, zilch
vacant stares
minds elsewhere
Don't know what to do
but attention I need
before, incomprehensible
now, understandable
An affair is brewing
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