From immemorial times I feel a dust

always hunting me wherever I go.

It blows softly and lightly, furtively

involving and deluding me.

It is a peculiar dust, that has in mind

not my body but my soul.

Created by the power of my enemies

and my disillusions, it works to calcify

the framework of my entire being.

But by night, at home and asleep,

you have all the right not to believe me,

invisible angels pour a cleansing rain

and by dawn it is a new and fresh man

who faces so old-fashioned one world.

First published in the July 2016 issue of The Basil O’Flaherty.

http://www.thebasiloflaherty.weebly.com

Published in Spirit Fire Review, August 27 2016.

http://www.spiritfirereview.com

Poets are made by mode of enchantment,

and mine has been an exquisite one.

It comes from our common ground,

sometimes from dark underground,

even from sparkling highs of heaven.

Some days, somewhere, untied to myself,

world loses the poet and gains the autist,

till a good soul recognizes me,

reconnecting the mode,

like an out of order gadget.

 

Published in Red Wolf Journal, May 21, 2016.

http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com

On “Wheat Field with Crows”, the last painting by Van Gogh.

 

The fullness of a golden wheat field is crowned

by a flock of dark birds in its migratory flying away.

The health and vigor of the landscape contrasts

with the menace of a cloudy and stormy sky,

which does not prevent the birds’ journey.

They know from birth the right route

and are the owners of the sky.

Poor humans do not fly, and are always doubting

their choice of the three roads Gogh has painted.

We are the owners of the earth and its richness,

but we have not even a little of the crows’ sense.

Published in Young Ravens Literary Review, Issue 4, May 31, 2016.

http://www.youngravensliteraryreview.org/issue-4.html

I am proud of the youth of my generation.

I came from a past that only must be seen

in its black and white.

Current bright colors cannot even approach

warmth of singular and peculiar bygone era. 

Just we who lived and loved in it are enough 

and qualified witnesses to so amazing a past.

Time of the candid, simple and naive living,  

with fewer choices, as only black telephones 

and only white fridges, also,

precious black and white films and photos.

Moreover, time to encounter enduring lovers,

that endure life’s disillusions, jointly reaching,   

so many years ahead,

these colorful unsettled contemporaneous days.

Published in Whispers, April 29, 2016.

http://www.whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com

Published in The Basil O’Flaherty, July 2016 issue.

http://www.thebasiloflaherty.weebly.com

I am not afraid of tears, at least mines.

They washed my body and eased my soul,

having vanished for so long.

Perhaps they do not realize all strength

given to me by soothing past times.

At age, my mind is modeled to think that

it is not worth weeping, for life is trouble.

I want to turn to my early days,

to my youth, my infancy, and learn anew

to cry whenever I fall down; then weep

prettily enough to please longing.

No one ever need or must see such tears,

that will pour from my innermost being,

then work warming and pushing ahead

to final struggles compulsive a fighter.

Since I and this world were introduced,

many, many years ago,

we have nurtured unconditional a passion,

that has lasted all the time.

We have enjoyed every day living together,

although huge crowd gathered around us,

prompt to envy and end this endearment.

Never have I been afraid of,

for they don’t know, or even imagine,

what kind of power that enrobes

so true and tireless a lover’s heart.

When I fall asleep, far from the world,

I don’t let it on strange hands,

averse to my delight.

I leave it, in the fogs of night,

in the care of nothing less than

its Creator.

 

Published in the July 2016 issue of The Basil O’Flaherty.

http://www.thebasiloflaherty.weebly.com