I see
I see right through you
and into your wild madness
like a transparent teardrop
a bubble that bursts and dissipates
trickling down my leg
and into the ground
drying up in the sun
an anticlimax, all but forgotten.
Dream of Blue
I dreamt of blue
a deep dark Russian blue
I painted with my blue
and it made me feel like
I was swimming in the sea.
Usually, I’m frightened when I
see this deepness in the ocean
as soon as I see the change
in the underwater light
so dark as to hide the seafloor
I panic and flee back to shore
anything can be hiding in the depths.
It terrifies me.
But inside of my dark blue
I am safe, fascinated by its
possibility and swaddled
inside the murky beauty.
Two poems dedicated to opera
On Hearing Verdi’s Requiem
Fragile beauty gives way to pulsating fluctuations
enigmatic expressions of epic grief
Such is the end of an era of beauty
that surrenders to the ravages of time
To live again in each performance
trumpeted scenes of past grandeur
The bass-baritone undertone of the sinister
single beating echoes in the caves of darkness
Soprano sketching out expansive emotion
she holds each note in the flux of heaven
Chorus connects to human consciousness
humming the grieving reaction to a death
As the punctured skin bleeds
so too does the wounded soul sigh
and in these sighs, one hears music.
On hearing him play: An ode to musicianship
(Dedicated to T.P)
Steinway voluptuousness
poised seductively upon the stage
Spotlit footsteps disrupt the moment of admiration
pages turn to the beginning
the anticipation felt as musical inspiration is inhaled
beauteous voice exhaled
Seeing him play
beholding a dreamer’s dream
voyeuristic fantasy
he is not here
he has stolen the moment to share
with his beloved, Music
in an intimate embrace
Hearing him play
flawless interpretation boldly resonates
how could each note echo a heartbeat?
lest it is from the one heart
as familiar voice whispers
sensuous secrets to delight
each nuance fully expressed
Remembering the moment
emotions evoked
the inner pool stirred with each finger
stillness rippled by the dimensions of emotion
the body recalls
visceral performance
shaped by the hands of an artist.
Connection
We only have these moments
tiny connections
to hold onto
as life slips through our fingers.
My poetry
My poetry is a constant whisper in my ear
a dark, haunting and persistent dream
my inner voice leaking out of my head
a constant weeping emotion
which is eerie, untamed and real
it is always uncomfortable
to share as the words come from an awkward place
yet they feel beautiful just the same
They are like little deformities
which express a deep insecurity
unpleasing to the eye
yet satisfying for the soul.
I coax them out of me like untamed wild animals
I watch as they slowly show me their savage power
I am always in awe of the epicness of human emotion
And how it can consume itself.
Death's garden
The idea came to commemorate my dearest ancestors
by planting them a garden.
Lavander sprigs for stillborn Estella.
Delicate violets from Nonna’s garden.
An all-enveloping ivy that covers and embraces
everything for Nonno.
Daddy would be an aubergine flower as that's
what he left for us in his garden.
Mum will be an exotic caper flower after she is gone.
I will plant them on my skin,
they will slowly grow up my arm
and cover my body in death's garden.
Added to with every loss
I choose a new plant to sow
for my family and friends
and add to the artwork
with each ghost.
Death's love affair
Death loves us deeply
like a child gathering flowers
and leaving them to dry in the sun
He cannot resist the beauty
of our immortal souls
which shimmer and glow
before his eyes
He loves the warmth which comes
from our hearts, the energy
which emanates from our lives
he is infatuated.
What love death has for us
he cannot stop himself
from touching and caressing
with every touch
he takes a piece of us
slowly stealing our lives
His gentle embrace is a lover
trying to possess his love
he makes fear disappear
overcome by a passion
deeper than ourselves
we are helpless
despite life’s distractions
we surrender to
the love affair
of death.
This poem is from the poetry collection zine Trinacria Poems currently available on Amazon
Read more about what I’ve been creating and how to support me here on The Art of Asking page.
A beautiful way with words
Oozing creativity from every pore
her mind ticks over incessantly
as she welcomes solutions to her problems
and offers a comfortable place for
new ideas to rest themselves
many of her endless thoughts
are consumed by the monster called doubt
one by one she fishes out the shredded fragments
patch them up and try to move on
those who survive her own doubt will survive anything.
Autumn of my life
The tired gardens of Autumn are beginning to slumber, dry out and wither.
The smell of rotting fruit is somewhat enticing like burnt cake, pungent and warm
everything is left to rot, too late to ripen and even to be picked or eaten.
Rotten stink bugs rub themselves with us, our clothes buzzing in their attempts
to flee and fly away.
I grab one inside my fist and throw it making it fly even if it doesn’t want to,
it leaves behind its perfume on my palm
a strange incense smell that many think is disgusting
The odour reminds me of these short gloomy days with intermittent bursts of sunshine
and the inevitable promise of the encroaching winter
that bring moments of deathly silence.
Strangely these are my favourite days
to reflect and create upon.
The Olive Tree
Bury me, there under the olive tree
where my ancestors sighed as they worked
where they whipped up dustbowls and thorns
where the songs and prayers were once sung
with tired voices and broken bodies
on whose branches some hung to harvest
and others to choke the very life out of themselves.
I want to rest under the ancient olives filled with endless spirits
and where the ghosts wait to possess innocent souls
each tree growing around in knotted branches, tying themselves
into the ground, holding onto the magical fruit
which revives the weary and contains the flavour of life.
There where the work is done like a religious rite,
with honest hands stained in dark oil spots
together with families who warmed themselves
with the hot coal filled conca
moved from tree to tree
during the once dark winter.
Where everything felt inevitable, everyone knew
their place, where the work was true and when done
you could rest.
