*** The sky over the forest of Monceau Is swelling, The flying boats of the chestnut leaves Are landing Over the salt-and-pepper waves - Your stormy hair, The smokey valley…
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*** The cupolas of churches, The cupolas of cows, The close-ups of silence, The close-ups of shrubs. The casual of coal, The casual of corn, In ‘Petit Granit’ are graveyards,…
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*** There is a mist In Hibiscus, The mist is blue - Oiseau Bleu! There is a kiss On a bell dress Written with water, There is home. There is…
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*** A pink dining table Whose pinkness perfumes your mind, Dalias flame gently in the expressionist eye of an artist, Their bodies glue all your attention (with almost no other…
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For 21.06.2025 When you walk through an abandoned meadow In the early morning in summertime, You may be lucky to encounter blue lava-like flow Of radiant wild chicories. Almost as…
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*** As the hot buckwheat-and-black-rye loaf Runs the gauntlet from forno to table, The bakerqueen is translating the music of dough To the movement of floating grain flavour. All of…
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*** In the isn’tness of her Persian blue eyes - central stage on her olive face, Something in me that responds To the primitive rhythm of an eyelid. The rest…
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23/12/2024 *** Only they, who truly listen, Can be obedient. “Ob” is “thoroughly”, “Audire” is “hear”. To hear thoroughly - Only the ear that seeks the song, Perceives it. End…
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There were grey wharves made of rotten logs, From where we, children, dove into the lake, There were the drowned pontoons on which we danced, gazing into the ochre waters.…
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Poetry *** To describe how you believe is difficult: When I hear church bells on Sunday morning in Italy, I want to stand up, Look at the wrinkles, landscapes, mimics…
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