I’m a proud member of a certified sinners’ brotherhood,

those who are faithful vassals of moonlit nights,

arousing torrid passions in sweet ladies, sometimes

sweet cute girls.

I can never resist every and any of the world’s beauties,

like a golden rose or a field’s daisy; also, in the summers,

in the afternoon, those corns’ ears pouring in the sun

their charming blonde hairs.

I love the plains and the mountains, the creeks flowing

to the rivers and seas, the birds crowning and cresting

above us — attentive and loving sentinels –

I love the scarlet red sunset announcing the day’s end,

enchanting and bewitching the early evening.

I love to run through far horizons discovering people

who help me to feed the fire I have been carrying, and,

along the way, inspire me to write some lyric sonnets.

 

Published in The Lake, November 2016 issue.

http://www.thelakepoetry.co.uk

My grandfather owned for life one farm,

where he and grandma raised the family,

raising also horned cattle and pigs and

rising to the mounts a coffee plantation.

They were married for entire life and so

their entire offspring.

They had thirteen sons and daughters,

my father the youngest, the thirteenth.

Thirteen the tribes had our Lord settled

over the Holy Land,

thirteen that afterwards had assembled

on the Last Supper.

The farm was known as the Water Mill.

The mill, an old one, producing corn meal

that grandma, in a brick kiln turned into

succulent cakes.

The water from a creek that fell down

since the hill to the mill wheels.

Then, going to the farm we always asked

what was the route to go to the Paradise,

so was named its hinterland.

The creek was named the Singing Creek.

I always thought that after crossing farm,

its waters flowed to one of the four rivers

that it was said relieved over the Paradise.

Remembrance smells to me as of old tales

like those we hear from the Holy Scripts.

Although I know bygones must be bygones,

I cannot prevent feel its scent this very day,

and still hear Singing Creek moving wheels

of an old, ancient, Water Mill.

 

Published in Creative Talents Unleashed (Featured Writer), September 11, 2016.

http://www.creativetalentsunleashed.com

Who will write my life?

Who will weigh my sins

and all the good, perhaps, I have had?

Who will pardon me for having existed

for so long, having changed so little?

Will my witnesses honor me and tell

all the love I have spread by the way?

May I take till my last home all the joy

I have been bathed in by birth,

that life’s disillusions have never dried.

I know there has been an angel

who has guided me, mainly

on some dark and strange nights.

Published in Red Wolf Journal, September 10, 2016.

http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com

Published in Spirit Fire Review, April 2017.

http://www.spiritfirereview.com

Published in West Ward Quarterly, Fall 2023 issue

http://www.wwquarterly.com

Nothing is sadder to a soaring eagle,

used to flying above the highest ridges

and to defying the top of the volcanoes,

than to be obliged to walk on earth,

like men and those other animals

that live on the ground floor.

Crooked by the suns, rains and snows

of countless days, nights and seasons,

it is unable to raise that ultimate flight

to the last sleep on the rocky caves,

around its native country the skies.

 

Published in Red Wolf Journal, September 12, 2016.

http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com