Saturday, January 1, 2022





The Boatswain


Warm is the evening air

But grave the silence

While Your thought wanders

To distant times

(Nothing remains of) to the boatswain

ready to set sail

and cross the seas

strong the call of distant lands

of exotic sounds and scents


Fading are the memories

Of the nights

under the starry skies or

stained with dark clouds

of your awakenings

to the cries of the seagulls


Old and tired

from o window

Of your lonely house

You turn now the gaze

where the sky

like a devote lover

the sea kisses

and sad  ask yourself

what you will find

over that horizon

@ Maria Miraglia


A Man Who Believes Himself A Gentleman


It gives me fun

to watch men

observe their ways


They all think to be good actors

even though neither Visconti

nor Rossellini would have ever chosen them

not even as extras


How many of their smiles

false and mischievous

handshakes and

vain hypocrisies

but also knowing the interlocutor

that all this is just a game

old and foolish

he soon enters the part

accepting praises bows

reverent greetings and

many more he reciprocates


He brings his smiles

up home where


closed the door behind his back

gets rid of the mask

of a man who believes himself a gentleman

and of those he met

plague and horns

begins to tell

@ Maria Miraglia 




A bond of friendship

Woven with the gold threads

Of love

Knotted with the common ideals

Of peace and harmony

Doesn't fear the winter winds

Nor storms

Or high tides

The time in its slow

Inexorable flowing

Will make it

Stronger and stronger

@ Maria Miraglia



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