Say, ever seen her swooning at the dew,
Getting mushy over skies or motherly love,
Going gaga over the grace of clouds?
Nope, but I heard she’s spreading right and left
Odd rumours, babbling with all and sundry
That colours are trapped in the glass
And October walks numb among the flowers,
The darn workshy!
Lodsa nonsense of course, who cares?
You serious? Who cares?
My memory jolts if only I remember
Those spreading wings awash with the blue of twilight,
The ravens flying eastward where words never breathe,
Then feasting on mallow and cold air –
Can you believe it? They ate the mallow
And blamed me for shedding
The green blood of silent vegetables,
Cheeky birds!
So I hid in my bedroom waiting for light,
You know, her eyes only can ease
The strain in my mind,
You know, I keep stalking her friendship,
You know, I even cut that old bore, the sun,
As a token of goodwill –
No, sister, I’m not joking, know what?
A wild blue wind will scathe
The outsiders from an awful blue light,
The loss, the end, the soul –
Whatever, they can’t hold strong our nights,
Let the wind howl, let him mourn births
‘Cause poets are wiser, they know birth is good,
It can wipe the dark out of the night –
That’s why they never waste birth or light,
But simply shutter the blinds
When silence is done with swamping
The skinless maths of thoughts –
If they’re lucky, maybe tides of words.
*******
Were she up to crossing the border
She’d breathe the fragrance of wild flowers –
They smell like prayers –
Oh, the sweet regret when she told
The streets the blind alleys the boulevards
‘Light? It’s mine, but you can keep it’,
As lovers kept wandering
Among twisted landmarks and unsuitable help,
Lost in broad daylight, I kid you not.
Too bad her camera couldn’t freeze for eternity
Empty hands, the echoes
From reddish leaves being evicted,
The passers-by shoving rainy flashes
And strained winds down the main roads:
Not even once they turned left or right,
Maybe frowning at change, maybe anxious –
Good heavens, what dodgy spots she hangs out at night,
Suburban cafes, blank sheets of paper,
A canvas where thoughts and silhouettes
Run like mad, where blind moons
Treat her to patronising smiles –
Nuff said, I shan’t follow suit with a craven winter
Who bows his head to precious gossipy stars,
I’ll go green, don’t you gods dare roam your hands
Up over my untouchable mind,
Don’t you mothers you witches you houses
Dare tell me some fruits are bad for me –
I’ll plea for the mercy of wolves if need be,
Next summer, yes, when the blades of grass
Leer in undisguised delight at the prunings
Left in the lurch, left lying in the streets.
*******
Whose soul is a silent choir?
Hers, when blossoms snuff it,
Kittens get thrown out of cars,
Headlights pry through stifling mists
At the edge of darkness –
It’s inside her, isn’t it, biting cold
The wind, ever-changing words,
So leave the lovely prayers unsaid,
You know, they lend but a handful of waves
That foam and give up,
Some whispering snow at the doors of demise,
Maybe sleep that swears
He’s fallen for her, the white liar –
A powerful love indeed,
At night you see her wandering
Through halls of insomnia,
Her, the bastard of time, the foundling
Even wavering winds can shake –
For God’s sake, quit,
No more smiles, heaven,
Beware the beams of light
Set on blue striking soon as
The moon shouts ‘fire’ –
Her hired guns, yes,
No rest, no stillness, no quiet for you:
The Earth fed up with days and traps
Will black out while trampled souls
Fight back and play dirty, mind –
But what were you dreaming of,
Maybe kindness and niceties
From those mercenary squads,
You poor deluded night?
Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”.
SICK LIT MAGAZINE 