BARBARA DI SACCO

 

Maybe It's Not Poetry

 

 Improvising like a guitto

 not having slept

 watching the moon go down

 on which to extinguish a cigarette

 about the nuclear nightmare.

 All is bad that ends badly

 like this wagon

black of smoke.

 I'm going to relight that old stove

 calumet, with Indian chief puffs.

 So, good morning, weary sun

 read, I speak.

 I will smoke the pipe

 sitting the broken ladder

 waiting for Godot.

 I borrowed his hat

 it will start to rain

 but, I might say, who cares.

 I haven't combed my hair for months

 a nest of chatter has formed

 in the wind of rants

 exactly, this is it.

 As far as I am concerned

 devoured books

 wood, trees, I ate

 I am a forest

 of retro nocturnes.

 And by the way

 where will i go today

 where there is still good wine.

July nights

 

 Cats

 panther eyes

 they scream poetry

 on these summer nights.

 They know like me

 born in the long moonlit night

 that July is blue

 like pelagus, in the evening.

 Does not visit winter sleep

 the body

 forgetting that autumn will come.

 Its spring flowers

 now they color

 like red poppies.

 That breeze that caress

 furrowing waves of petticoat and leather

 wake up the night of Jupiter

 at the window of stars

 open to dreams.

 Heavy breath

 excites thoughts

 walking to the beach

 to sit on the candid reflection

 magical, of muse.

 Bathing sea

 the Olympus

 hands of gods

 who sing ode to enchantment

 taking you down

 where pleasure is divine.

 

With A Rose

 

 Delicate

 and deep scent

 subtle feeling

 finely penetrating

 emanating from a spiral of velvety petals.

 Of colorful charm

 at the opening of the bud

 placed on a gentle chalice

 tender corolla.

 Such an enthralling essence

 towards an enveloping coil

 eloquent expression

 of lost senses.

 Be it so, supple skin

 soft and compliant silk

 of amiable caress.

 Like blood

 the color of passion

 pink, of hidden love

 veiled and kept silent.

 

 

Angel Wings

 

 They could be big

 these my wings

 they were from an angel

 of life, in love

 and embrace

 fly up

 hearts of the world, everyone.

 Fresh borea, robust kite

 with colorful, light souls at the helm

 what a poem he dropped

 peace, on dark threats

 on our children of light.

 Tails, gentle, darting swords

 shearing chains, injustices

 breaking down hate

 nuclear terror

 wars, famine, destruction.

 Money I would turn into bread

 the earth I would like to save

 the mother and every flower of hers.

 Of these long arms of mine

 I would cradle it

 happy sleep

 of my lips, kisses

 on tears and smiles.

 May I fly to love you so much.

 

Justifications

 

 Morning

 of lightning and thunder

 that come in and bang.

 Shocks, tumult.

 It's needed, wake up

 in my stay

 in hellish, celestial dimensions

 psychedelic, sensory.

 Affinity, solitudes

 good and evil

 sun and moon, often black.

 Turn the tao inside me

 creating endless spin

 no beginning, no end.

 I swim lost

 dazzled, disappointed, looking only for light.

 Thunder drum call

 beat echoes

 pumping independent activity

 deep.

 I rise again, I collapse holding on

 traveling, floating.

 I find and I lose

 calling myself and answering.

 It's not some crazy mechanic

 but lucid truths from which to escape

 entering the vortex

 running away

 like a child in the fantasy of the game.

 

Howl

 

 Wolf without herd

 lonely step

 you howl at the night

 alone like you.

 Parallel to your path

 so much, to mix breaths

 I'm here, like you.

 Rusty, wounded eyes

 they scrutinize the paths at random.

 I hear you, looking for

 footprints, smells

 showing respect, I'm watching you

 in the freezing darkness

 covered in mists

 on the peak to count

 what could you leave.

 Absent, helpless.

 I'm gaining ground, slowly

 I fall in love with you

 I hold out your hand

 I know, I love you.

 You show teeth and claws

 step back

 but I, I come, towards you.

 I challenge your sense of smell

 I'm here, I bend over.

 You put your hair down, puzzled

 sniffing

 come close to me.

 Alpha recall

 abandonment

 prick up your ears

 tail stretched out

 admit surrender.

 Together on peaks

 shouting at the moon

 driving away

 darkness and all fear.

 

BARBARA DI SACCO

 

BARBARA DI SACCO 🦋, Italian poet, Tuscan, was born in 1964. She defines herself as a painter of poetry, as instead of a pen, she seems to use a brush who paints her writing.  You define poetry thus, as it presents itself to you: Poetry is a royal lady who appears naked or in a petticoat, so much is her going out of her in a hurry, day and night.  She wanders, otherwise, if you don't immediately welcome her into your feelings. Here, now, she's coming down the stairs.... Barbara loves literature, painting, music, the arts in general, nature, peace in the world. Even her silences whisper words.