La mia prima poesia italiana

Siete i benvenuti a mia casa

C'e' dove,
La tua candela si scalda sempre
il cuore del focolare

(Penned June 27, 2012)  

Image source is here 

Dolce far niente

Conjectures blind, mulling over, Same? Different? Conversational-less grey-clouded skies, how do we know, a hard crack of jagged light striking, how do we know, mugs of tea lazily fogging glasses, de-skimming them endlessly, mechanically, phosphenes drifting like snowflakes, a whirring whip of rolling dice, so there can be solutions, rain-dripped pages drying, we’re not problems people, uh-huh, intents bobbing on loaming waves of limbo, perhaps, maybes, maybe nots,  two sides of a coin, edge bound, where we meet, scurrying until we fall off, gets back on, who remains, it takes feet but two, to keep it spinning,  and so live and die, these crests of our making, undecided, now forgotten tea abandoned, Look! How beautiful is this rain! So let’s bury them, conjectures blind, Same? Different? In this muddled, rain-swept earth, until the day, someone finds them and says, Look what I found! These oddly littered knick-knacks that stood the test of time!  

Penned Tues, June 19, 2012

Image source is here 

The Song of Life (Jiddu Krishnamurti)

I have no name,
I am as the fresh breeze of the mountains.
I have no shelter;
I am as the wandering waters.
I have no sanctuary, like the dark gods;
Nor am I in the shadow of deep temples.
I have no sacred books;
Nor am I well-seasoned in tradition.
I am not in the incense
Mounting on the high altars,
Nor in the pomp of ceremonies.
I am neither in the graven image,
Nor in the rich chant of a melodious voice.
I am not bound by theories,
Nor corrupted by beliefs.
I am not held in the bondage of religions,
Nor in the pious agony of their priests.
I am not entrapped by philosophies,
Nor held in the power of their sects.
I am neither low nor high,
I am the worshipper and the worshipped.
I am free.
My song is the song of the river
Calling for the open seas,
Wandering, wandering,
I am Life.
I have no name,
I am as the fresh breeze of the mountains.

Source is here

After The Alphabets (W. S. Merwin)

I am trying to decipher the language of insects

they are the tongues of the future
their vocabularies describe buildings as food
they can instruct of dark water and the veins of trees
they can convey what they do not know
and what is known at a distance
and what nobody knows
they have terms for making music with the legs
they can recount changing in a sleep like death
they can sing with wings
the speakers are their own meaning in a grammar without horizons
they are wholly articulate
they are never important they are everything