Today I opened my mourning’s season.

I cried for the lack of solidarity and brotherhood,

for the existence, till today, of countries’ borders,

increasing inequalities and suffering among people;

for the estrangement among whites and blacks,

yellows and browns, Christians and Muslims;

for the rich who reach water from golden faucets

and the poor who carry it in the buckets;

for the wine and salmon tables of the mansions

and yesterday’s bread passing from hand to hand;

for the security of the politicians for the coming years

and the fear of the common people for tomorrow;

for the dreams of the righteous, that have not come true

and the audacity of the insolents who are not intimidated;

for my lack of faith that everything is in our Lord’s hands

and in His extreme love for us.

My tears have washed my body and eased my soul.

When I die, no need to cry more.

I have already cried for what matters, at least for me.

 

Published in Red Wolf Journal, November 16, 2016.

http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com

Published in Spirit Fire Review, issue 10, June 2017.

http://www.spiritfirereview.com

Half divine and half human,

sons of God and cousins to the angels, those

of the pure lineage as well of the fallen ones.

Always wavering from earth to the heavens,

we must give way to the ground sustaining

and sheltering strange while lovely dreams,

some nocturnal ones, some in the sunlight.

Although to pure blue of heavenly landscapes,

we prefer the brown ochre of our native earth,

smelling of dear sinful brothers and sisters,

faithful companions of suffering a race.

Race that, since the dawn of our era, has colonized,

at God’s command and by hard a toil, all the lands

of so rough otherwise sometimes exquisite a world.

 

Published in Red Wolf Journal, November 4, 2016.

http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com

Sometime, somewhere in the East Lands,

there was a spot relieved by four rivers,

right place to settle shadowed a garden.

A traveling Potentate loved the scenery,

took possession of it, there building

magnificent a manor house.

Having not a hermit’s heart and His will

for creation unsatisfied,

and applying unsuspected powers,

He created, by a saint sixth labor day,

a new nation, now known as the humans.

Love and the desire to create, the bequest

we were awarded from our Lord

has leading us to populate and stretch out

the once Garden of Eden.

We have lived many years, some of us

even many decades.

Our mind  remembers past events,

mainly our successes and triumphs,

what always we share with friends,

with genuine a pleasure.

But there are secret remembrances,

some days or hours, yet minutes,

immeasurable joy and contentment,

heavily guarded in our hearts, hidden

from avid and suspicious human eyes.

There is always a balance in life,

between the heavens and earth,

God and humans,

the sacred and profane.

Many times by such hit-and-miss borders,

designed through the seen and the unseen,

we cannot discover the source

of our happiness and misfortunes,

our joy and sorrows.

Always unable to manage life’s seasons,

we enjoy some halcyon ones blended

with others so disturbing.

There are tragedies on the ground floor,

made by incautious people, not prevented

by incautious guardian angels,

being healed by the Almighty, many times

by our own human brothers, some of them

the most unthinkable ones.

We follow fighting everyday vicissitudes,

joining hands with all of our friends,

the visible and the hidden ones,

any of them we must ever dismiss.

 

Published in Young Ravens Literary Review, issue 6, Summer 2017 issue.

http://www.youngravensliteraryreview.org

There are still marks on the ground

where I have kneeled and cried in despair.

The tears I have poured in it had been exhaled

and were lost forever.

My screams startled the birds that took,

around the skies, news of dread and fear,

also entirely lost.

However, the laughter once I launched,

also recorded by the birds,

so gladly had been welcomed that echoes

by this very day.

There were also some triumph yells

and some love whispers, which, along

all the rest have been made worthwhile

a life of so unnoticed this human’s soul.

 

 

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