No ifs, no buts, no whys, our skies are filthy:
The gig at full blast when the youngest stars
Went wild, a blue hustle, and blue the blitz,
So couple of smashed limbs fell down to the earth
And hit a folk-singer -
Darn, just as she was trying the first chords of a ballad?
My darling sky, no need to cop out, the girl croaked
Among those leaves down the corner,
They were sneering at you, maybe mad at the sun gone awol -
Death never bothers them, of course -
Look, you bastard, who are you to blame
The fading chords echoing away in the sun?
I know, you've got way too much time
On your hands filthier than the skies,
Yet you never learnt to chart the grid points
Of starry vaults and heavens -
And don't you play you bastard
The good ol' card of him and his patient wait,
Not their fault, I'm afraid, if dark is a sniper,
Not their fault, I'm afraid, if he nabs down
The farthest stars -
I know, slim chance for you to go even,
But who bloody cares, maybe life?
Nope, she's too hung up on smokes, mirrors and riddles -
Nope, look at their hands, a swift ruthless wipe
And lo and behold, all your beloved tat falling down,
Refugee camps cleared from roots and children,
The trees ablaze and foliage eating up your ancient altars -
And don't you bolt out 'cause these are your clothing,
These, the greedy leaves bolting down your wind,
Limbs and skin, in a cosy tea party till dawn,
When your eyes at last bend down
To every gleaming gone lost -
Now, you done?
Well, not bad a script for an indie flick,
But be an angel, ask for a cup of tea
While blonde caregivers push empty wheelchairs,
And the kitten ensconced in my chest wail,
Are they by any chance in heat?
There, there lie our cards, a party, some tea,
A bedlam of sighs, the unasked-for birth,
Unshadowed silence from a sky so great at strife -
No, I can't, I simply can't act wild or grow blue grudges
Only the sky can, I know, I know,
But please go on, my wandering prophet,
Please do shout light to us, them,
Deserts, fields and wild blue waves -
To life, yes, even if it's not my cup of tea -
Pure drive, who else?
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, and Blue branches.
Whenever my soul is hungry for God, prayers and meditation do sate my hunger and allow me to reach a much-needed calm and acceptance, peace being still a far-away horizon.
I feel that, albeit God never replies in the way the humans are accustomed to, he does in his own way and time, and, what's even more important, what's material, he listens.
Breathing helps me connect with the universal breath of Light, that often, too often, we tend to take for granted, unaware that the very first beginning of a splendour we might not deserve was born from the First Breath.