Un profeta nel deserto
mi sto sediendo e mangiando il mio pane quotidiano
mentre le locuste consumano il mondo.
Il sole splende alla mia finestra
come brillerà quando siamo andati,
quando finestre essiste non di più.
È una vita semplice qui in campagna,
una
Aprile ha un atteggiamento,
non puoi predire il suo umore.
Stamattina una tiepida brezza ha spazzato sopra la terra.
Ero felice di essere accarezzato da esso,
quest'aria dal profondo sud,
forse persino dal Sahara.
Sono andato giù alla zona dei bambù
Seduto sotto il noce
Guardo la luna piena che sale
Il sole è tramontato, gli uccelli si sistemano,
la notte è in arrivo.
Una grande pace avvolge.
Sotto l'albero i narcisi brillano
in mezzo a un tappeto di fiori primaverili selvaggi.
Sorseggio il mio tè e ri
The memories like a swirling cloud of a distant life that knew no bound. A soul that hurt and knew the fear of loneliness and uncertain frown. Like echoes from a distant room they come to haunt and I feel them Strewn about my mind like swirling cloud
Read more…
So what, now, is the colour of your soul
Does it change? Will it flaunt a gaudy frock?
Is it young, yet with a lining old as gold?
Does it rhyme like the ticking of a clock?
Do you ever wear a rainbow as a shirt
when you really should have kept things mo
Here is a poem I had published a while ago...
Compostello
A longing calls me westward along the pilgrim trail;
a pilgrim hood I’ll have and a staff and donkey friend,
a metal cup to scoop spring water for sweet ale
and strong boots for walking to the
There he is walking from the land of golden sands
Where the sun never sets and the moon never rises.
Walking the cracked grounds of the desert Sahara
To cross the sea and come to you,
The messenger of faith is here
See his glory and bow to his honor
For h
The rain was heavy last night,
by noon once again all fine and clear,
on the horizon tiny clouds gathering
with attitude.
Were everything in one’s world pure
so would be one’s heart.
In that case, however,
No objection to stormy weather.
Seventy circuits round the sun,
although it seems she circuits me,
each day with nothing still to lack,
her face arises... I bow low.
From this illusion springs our woe,
so natural the illusion is
to think one does not budge one jot
as all revolve
Read more…FAITH
Faith is fearless, faith sings gaily,
she touches me tenderly when I’m sad.
Faith sits quietly in the sun
remembering all the fun we’ve had.
Faith inspires as a rising fire
then lies in wait as yesterday’s ashes;
she comes in the wind, in the h
You eye in the sky seer of the all
Judge of the blind, all knowing and all encompassing.
Sirius star of wisdom, bringer of balance guide of humanity
Tell me the answer I seek, let me know which way to go.
On my knees I am begging for your words.
Blue
Read more…There is no cause for happiness,
only misery wants reason,
yet happiness has prompts innumerable
while misery is mute;
yet when we know the cause of our distress
it has its limit with its season,
only enduring malady is unable
to give account that is not mo
FRIEND AT THE WINDOW
So many leaves turning
from green to brown,
or still part and part -
walnut tree in autumn
caressing my bedroom window
how you have grown this year
through spring deluge and summer drought
now to emerge
through autumnal mist,
Read more…WINTER MORNING
the blinding silver eastern sun,
dawn metal in the frost,
pull back the curtain, day has begun,
the tattered dreams of night are lost
the empty day begins to fill,
the frost to fade in hours ahead,
the cat upon the window sill,
the old man tur
SHUTTLEDORE
Well, I’ll be dying soon but you don’t need to cry,
I will soon be passing and we all know why,
We all know we all know we all have to die,
But that’s not a reason and that’s why we cry.
The body is a-failing and the ailing’s long,
The n
Waka is the classical poetic form of Japan. Each poem is in the syllabic form 5-7-5-7-7. This is the form that was used by the famous Japanese poet Saigyo. He usually wrote a short prose introduction to explain the setting of the poem.
Here is a poem
Read more…The Star that would turn Stone
tender call of sorrow's mischief
A latent thought erupts like an angry volcano
Immediately the unity of my mind
Speaks a language equal to the shattered notions of a life cut open
The lifeline remains
Will the sands explode
The world is perfectly round
though dented here and there.
Each August it picks up shooting stars
appearing from who knows where
My mind was never so perfectly round
triangular nor square
nor have I recently ever been
a whale, giraffe or koala bear.
Evolving
I’d like to write a poem
but the muse has deserted
without asking my permission.
It seems rather careless to wander off like that
leaving blank pages
gaps between words
muddled concepts and broken images
scattered around -
not even enough to make a
This is a poem I write about my stay at La Ville au Roi,
NIGHT IN THE SHEEP HOUSE
First night in the sheep house
candle blown out,
I lie awake listening
to the walls
making no sound.
Animal antecedents are
embedded in this stone.
I feel them brea
