Wingtips

Coming Back

Coming Back

It's like telling the past to the dry stones
in the river-- you sneak your fingers, displace
the clinging spiders, unwrap places you visited
and hear the friction of years, the creaking of leaves
once buds and now skin holed by worms.
You ask for help to old people, to the images carved
in their hearts, but they forgot words,
only wait  to harvest the last crop of stars.

Mind the Fish

Jeez, I have been absent for a long time, but missed my regular ( more or less) posts and visits. Resting after a long session of exams during which I was far more worried than the students who had to sit for it. Most were successful and with some excellent marks...I think I need a holiday. Meantime, I dream of exotic beaches.

Avatar Review Issue 11 is up

AVATAR REVIEW --11

Touching Light

An old one recently revised for NaPo.

Touching Light

His liquid thoughts I measure on dry lips.
We huddle in the bed; in silken tangle
of twilight, savage flame, I lose my grip.

He crosses hands around my knees then flips
a copper curl with licks--my balance stumbles.
His liquid thoughts I measure on wet lips.

I press my back against his chest; he dips
into my hips and fingers draw an angle,
then I, ablaze, he, savage flame -- we grip.

Head on my breast, he says he can outstrip
all honeybees, make blossoms huge like paigles.
His nectar thoughts I feel in searching lips.

He slips his hand beneath my neck; I trip
amid wet grass of hair, so our skin tingles,
lets twilight's peachy flames secure their grip.

We watch our bodies' filigree eclipse
as twilight wears an underworld moon bangle.
We taste our misty thoughts till water lips
cool savage flame, let sleep take soothing grip.

Trying to Write about Abruzzo's Earthquake

Trying to Write about Abruzzo's Earthquake

The poem travelled by car, crossed half Italy
all alone leaning its voice on crooked steeples,
echoing voices buried under tons of ruins.
It didn't ask for anything, not even words, arrived
without warning for it had the door key. Once inside,
it offered me a bowl with pebbles, bunches of flowers
dripping dust, bleeding hands frantically digging
and the solitude of an empty horizon.

My heart beat got fast, I searched my bag
for pen, paper, and found respectful silence.

__________________

Excess

Excess

Wind and light write their absurdist script

on the wall while birds get lost

in the quivering calligraphy of reflections

and transparent lizards dart

green transparency

in and out my consciousness

imbued

with the white explosion

of the sun

so white it hurts

it pierces the silence of shade

and roots and the soft conversation

of leaves brushing emerald opulence

against branches

and there in drifting coruscations

between eyeblinks

I feel a weaver with radiant hands

ready to undo  clusters of time.

-----

NaPo at PFFAMonthly Poetry Madness

The Marathon continues

Stone Writing

I will write with pebbles from now on,

will choose the right ones from their smoothness,

the parabola they make before falling,

the music  buried in their rocky heart.

Neither pens nor PC keys keep memory

of why fingers' pressure builds sentences'

scaffolding, while each pebble wears

a river-architect's long labor of water caresses.

With pebbles I will write a song of bridges

set against the lonely horizon, a song for travellers
keen on listening to protean tunes of the sea

of tigers, on cleaving a trail out of swamps.

----------------------

The Shout of Spring

sweeps in the air, dives, with a  fluttering of wings,

through  freshly laundered clothes.

Far away,  restless thaw rivulets drain and drip

brown pine needles and skeleton leaves,

while light-bursts lure girls with flowers between teeth

and frogs that croak their love to waterlilies.