Postcard # 2

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STUPIRSI

Courage in the skin of forms,
a game experience woven,
at times left behind,
the dondolio, the action becoming
pure reason to watch
to life in the hands of the torch,
divinely embraced
by an enlarged I, a breath
soave that inundates the heart.
Thinking to penetrate
the truths a new force,
an attraction to beauty
special inclination
to live the real.
Serbando sweetness
and upload the image, carefree
claim for that purpose
notes the merit of having taken
the beg, the servant served
the light from light struck.
In 'illusion of being
Sports this little consistency,
and a cry that challenge the moral,
but the wisdom and finished
the human limit, which underpins
to infinity, with eyes
of a child amazed,
and enchanted by the gaze
mother, tenderness of a
relationship with the divine.

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Acts on reality

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How Wind That What Soffia…

L ike the wind blowing and travels afar,
as the hair of passing the hand,
look forward and discover the future
as the darkness a day and feel safe,
and feel that at the bottom of the heart something resists,
and is not only pumped for tired blood veins,
and open our arms and travel far,
as migratory fly to open new avenues,
and the wings on the ground throwing down the sentences
of a life lived without ever a hand,
and then melt in the sun and be reborn again
how the wind blows and travels afar,
as the hair of water, yet, skip the hand.

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Strappi of love in the sky

Strappi of love… in the sky

Love is that robust wire
Infilato from the heart in that eye
On a needle that sews up in the sky
All wrenches on his moon

Ordisce embroidery on the concave veil
With all the stars of fortune
A wire c'unisce the sweet profile
On a Goddess dell'olimpo and a battona

What every purity painted on cloth
Dell'incertezze that unites
Destini of love without that frost
C'attanaglia hearts buriana in

D'orgogli crazy for another asylum
The wire which is love torn s'abbruna
And 'why I anelo be that wire
For all the emotions it gathers ch'in

Edo and stories hung

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Without poetry

***
Streets deserted
lost
through the streets of the sun, lights
covering the asphalt

and sings the rain
while crosses
my watch

a spotlight on changes
the moon, look
a love away

I did not poems
this evening, only silence
who listens
silence.
*

*


Good Nuncio ~ ~

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Celia de la Serna

That destiny that annodava wires
stubborn
without justice
grew lush
mild leaf in a ditch
in a force
dark
Arcane
in a remote corner of snow
with the torpor of nothingness
in that way infinite
You had your strength
Knight by Basque starry
girovago timeless hero.
with the holiness of ferocious winners
the idyll without notice tired of life.
Then the cabala
you adulava
you did it
victim damned on earth
your legend that touched the sky.
The heart in his hand
dreams in the heart
that color purple
by prince of the righteous
master of a day of October.
The oak is still there
Celia still awaits
in that house without dreams of Rosario
Chicco climb.
Pinar del Rio (Cuba 12-08-07)

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MI HAS WRITTEN SALLY

Emoziono a stretch
between pages dated literary novel
and attempts psychotic pretestuosi of writings
Not even surpass tonight dictionaries imagined

Perhaps the first leap of platelets coloured:
Hello are Sally
the unwelcome visitor Range
GT
and lost immunity,
has confused the address

Search communication in clubs of belonging
It was not the last syringe
nor those last two jumps
on the bed of a past love

That exceeded frisia of healthy eating
caresses and parachute in the dark
I scorrazza between the veins

I have in my pocket yet another recipe anti…
Anti chè?

For this refusal running pretty avance
pacchettini the gift with fiocchino
and words of understanding
that you can not avoid

I do not have inventar lies continue
to your mother meat concluded
Vorrò the mica
Advance condolences
printed in green eye
you have

Neither those anxious glances,
reflected in the TV in your living room
they do
the counting of the dead killed
sdegnate in discussions rewarding

I already have a phone number stracciato

Cause complex than litigate ferocious
and fears, always wash their hands.
In the buffet of verse
I left written more tasty recipes
and there are no dirty clothes to wash

For this year I think
not to come
to find the
sea
Do well without me

I have the bike to be repaired.

(poetry of the author in the race MACWALT)

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When in May will come

When in May will come,
you'll have other eyes…
or perhaps I will have you lost,
within an April that had only the day of tears….
When reached in June,
covetous of clouds and rain
also wipe your tears;
Your eyes will be desert
in this July that calls rain,
and knows that not fall… ..
We August hours
to look away,
under other umbrellas,
Depart from arsura sand and
water and life… ..
It will be perhaps another in September…….
And we…
Not more other……

Prestopresto

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L 'Mr

Elegant: as a carnation.
Lightning: yellow white.
Suonavano the bass drum
but not saw the rainbow.
I searched in my everywhere.
Affettazione giocherellona
between forms of contracted say
straight back at the table
in linen
aware
Safe if
for as little less likely than a century.
It is one that he attended with kisses the cheeks
our possible
new Duce.
Fumanti figures
designed with an aperitif.
Tonsura in order
who speaks
of kisses while speaking kiss
flash: yellow white
in perfect French
to tie knots
a calla and a goose…

then I have woken up abruptly
sò and not tell you more.

Enrico Dignani

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Eyes of the night

you know hide curious eyes of children
you watch the shadows that take shape
you laugh at your scalza maliconia
you know arouse clamor on horse hooves
yet we are so bare of ideas
without news
without renewal
without a flower in the desert
yet there is still a timid hope
that is hidden in the eyes of the night belora

Guido Arci Camalli

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The rest is life

I want blue color everything I throw for the mind. I would like the pink veiled red clouds at sunset, to give space flight of the night in an ethereal dimension, where the imagination gets lost among the maze most heavenly of life. And that is not the only earthly terrestrità we attornia, like a dragon, ready to spezzarci the wings of an astral dimension that draws us with his magic. Let us carry the wings of magical moon. And even if willing, was a return to our childhood, let us be soothed by the full moon, specchiata by waves of the sea, and dream a sea, the horizon, and alziamoci only three centimeters from the ground, find the sky. What true, not that of postcards, the sky inside a palm of your hand. The sky is our mind, the arms are our openings wing and fly, yes, fly over condominiums, fly above the shops, fly on the wings of broken whoever would have us believe that we can not fly. Everything can be done! Just believe it. Alziamoci three centimeters from the ground, we remain suspended from the many problems that we assillano. Flying on certain absurdity of life. Eleviamoci by too many… The rest is life.

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written at the time

I'm ready ..
Immedesimarsi in a flight butterfly ..
hope to settle on a tender and fragrant flower ..
and while you live for that wonderful and unique day
be ready to grasp every nuance ..
those smells, how many senzazioni pervade me ..
And tomorrow
I hope to die
landing on a luxurious lawn
kissed by the sun and the moon
and when the wind will bring me away
I will be ready…

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LAKE MALINCONIA

We must love, melancholy,
dress for the mist of the lake:
uggiosa concern of water lens
to be confused with the foot of the sky;

the hypnotic mantra of rinsing
which lengthens the hull polpastrelli
a shell upside down, lonely,
to contemplate the placid Germany.

Canne dancing strusciano memories
arruffando the wet sighs
specchiarsi distorted in your face
sopiti want freshwater.

Lego a regret to wings Breva
that rises from the South, died on Tivano,
sull'onda long crying a pain
comfort of knowing your shores.

And when the evening only your smell
Draws in looking the expanse
of deep-water above that mystery
unresolved waves that my punishment.

(Oliviero Angelo Fuina)

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Days of rain

Rotolerei yet between clean sheets of us if the stains of life not allargassero as oil spande that, as blood came to fiotti by a pain that macera.
Rivedo everything, even if my eyes are now annebbiati tears.
I see us there in our bed where I lived your belly, caressed herons hung from the ceiling and dreamed with them, singhiozzato the eternal love in amplessi sdruciti by time, while acid rain accarezzava windows closed tightly, as if that temessimo love scappasse out forever.
The rain was the ticking of quell'orologio that we have never hung, now sorrido to think about that time in that store and those who have watched the first to laugh in front of the poor who felt committed taken around by two madmen without a penny .
We were the Green, but there was love that made us rich, the love that has never failed at least believed were the case.
I remember our morning, the richness of your eyes to fix the lens that my pupils understand what surrounded us and what we were, those always on my lips, singular in their beauty and alphabets of kisses that we donavamo in the nights of honey.
We were intended, caresses started from the heart and came within the soul silent.
The collapse was not expected, the pain brought squarci and nothing could slow down the fluid that disperdeva love in the air.
Projects accartocciarono invalidity making every smile that we marked cheeks.
Those cheeks would not have had more of your caress.
The caresses were like our breaths that there were.
They were our minutes that down to rain.
Acid Rain that solcava cheeks like tears.
Tears that will not even hours to descend.
The end is unknown.
Me and you.
Never
more.

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Scivola light a thought…

Scivola light
a kind thought
On the lips rests
in the eyes Specchia
It looks forward to the heart
the time of

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"The title?…… I do not know what to put…. are short of ideas…. "

Even if it is passed to tardissimo are here to greet a small, and to wish you good night!….
I do not know what title to give this my post, so I left empty, a bit like my life is in this last period! Mica is a coincidence? Who knows!
And 'all evening I have in the head song Carboni "farfallina," you place the video, and I wish you a peaceful night and sweet dreams…… golden bells until tomorrow kisses

PS. for this great video I have to thank danzanolenote (though not know personally), at least this is the nick on youtube… ..

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this love has 20 years

Mario Vecchione

Quest'amore has twenty years
el'ingenuità still draw
written on the sand ardent dream;
twenty years has this love
as the pace of those late return
chasing for the day that goes by
and not to let the grey linen;
We are thus looking for the air of the valleys,
the wave of the sea happy to be free
and looks happy and we amazed,
as children at the dawn scoprir
and words that are not tired
intertwined in whispers behind veils of kisses

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The hard job - Mauro Candiloro

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Poetry readers - Prayer for a son - marcomkc

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The wire

Paul of Tarsus

The was always like reading in bed, especially in winter, when appreciated that more soft shell.
Only, as always, flowed the pages of small volume chosen for the occasion: hoped to do in time finirlo.
The silence, shadows, seemed to listen to his eyes tell that little story and sorriderne with him that a little 'tired, seguitava, now moving a bit away, hours accomodando the mesh of big pyjamas.
A question raised with the push thick lenses from the nose, eyes massaggiandosi; had always complained of discomfort that big metal frame, but was almost happy in his recognise.
The heaviness in the head increased; poggiò on the pillow behind, turning his face to the ceiling.
A widespread abandonment made him close his eyes, and yes, now was just tired.
It shook with fatigue. Risollevò the book to the face, but saw only small forms nuanced apparent family, distinguishing barely a row on the other.
He was thirsty. There was water on the bedside table, a glass of water still full in half.
Rivide, sfuocato next to the glass, the tube of sleeping pills now empty.
I saw between the hands of committed, the pharmacy of turn evening, less than two hours earlier.
The commission now that the face reminded someone.
He felt his head confused, ovattata.
I knew perhaps? He had already seen somewhere? It was a close? Or a similarity, perhaps?
An actor. Yes, behold, it resembled an actor.
An American actor, to be young. Or English.
He would have wanted so much to discover who he was, but his sleep last won it.

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The wait

Paul of Tarsus

Not yet. Among perhaps an hour, or slightly more.
The first evening was a proverb; liked the proverbs, all the old wisdom, too old and too known not to be true.
The stories instead were often too stupid, simple and stupid. Rarely the strappavano a smile. You can not make time to a few lines, but you can do better.
The recipes along the edges not even read. Never cooked well in his life; after the death of his wife, then only ready meals or a cup of milk.
When was disappointed was tempted to go ahead, rip again, the first time, but could trattenersi. He knew that it was better to wait, wait pass that day.
It was a real surprise when they had opened, almost five months earlier.
There was hardly noticed Christmas and only quell'omaggio cashier of the bakery under house had mentioned that was about to begin a new year.
That large advertising calendar, with colored block to browse the center, had marked his party.
Meanwhile scivolavano The images on the video. It was started on news of the night and was already quite late. But the monotony of those items had done assopire armchair on the small dining room.
Only silence the shock from that torpor. The issuer does not broadcast more and TV boccheggiava waiting for someone spegnesse.
Riordinò quickly. Now it could do when he wanted.
Preparations for the night were as simple rituals and soon was ready.
The became close slowly and arrived in front of the wall is soffermò for a moment in an overview. Then, raised his arm, staccò edge of a block with the thumb.
The May 13 was now past and in a few moments a big red 14 would have happened.
Closed the index is assured of having a single sheet of paper between your fingers and pulled by shooting.
Lesse avidamente the two lines of bold print under the new date, then accartocciò The leaflet had in our hands.
Chinò head; already knew the maximum speed.
He had hours in front of him other twenty-four hours, until the following evening, until the next time.
There was still time to wonder what would have done at the end of the year.

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Trapassami Of Words.

T rapassami words of the heart,
it takes only a few, very sharp, not counting the aims
since they know well and wounding cut,
this is their job and not worry,
all shots are always the final,
even if they do not see blood, credimi, are evil
and we will write a man who wanted us to play,
with those small appuntite words misused,
from the mouth innocent launched towards the heart,
perhaps do not know, but learns that not returning,
once inside the heart planted.

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Celebration of Literature Noir / Ponzano Superior (SP)

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LETTER TO FRANCIS

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Writing is therapeutic

Carmen Auletta

Today you tell a piece of my life,

writing can be therapeutic, but know that I write not to arouse feelings of pity or who knows what else, let alone I dream of judging people whose story, as if it were so easy to understand why and percome of many things. No, I just want to parlarti me, what I felt a morning so long ago…

I had maybe six or seven years when rovistando between old trunks buried under a blanket of dust and ragnatele found a photo. It was a photo old, even if it was in black and white and a little 'faded is understood that this was a beautiful woman with clear eyes and blond hair. He had something familiar, it was as if the woman knew the always resembled someone but I did not know to whom.

I went in the kitchen and there I found my grandmother busy in his chores, faeces noted the photo and asked if he knew that beautiful woman depicted. My grandmother, who at first was incuriosita, when recognized photos of the person changed his facial expression, his eyes were no longer arricciati and socchiusi like when you want to focus on a 'image, this time his eyes were spalancati and expressing anger and contempt.

She began to me questions about how and where I had found the photograph I rispondevo, but she continued to ignorarmi and I repeatedly asked the woman who was the picture… in short, because they wanted to tell me who he was? Così non faceva che accrescere la mia curiosità, ad un certo punto mia nonna chiamò la figlia, mia zia, le fece vedere la foto e parlavano a bassa voce per non farmi ascoltare, anche mia zia faceva la misteriosa e allora capii che era inutile domandare; da allora non ho più trovato quella foto…credo che l’abbiano distrutta, avevo compreso oramai che la donna della foto era un argomento tabù in casa di mia nonna e quindi per la pace domestica era meglio spegnere la mia curiosità. .

Erano trascorsi altri sei o sette anni da allora, oramai ero una quattordicenne, quando mia sorella, più grande di me di quasi sette anni , venne in collegio e mi disse di prepararmi perché dovevo andare a casa del suo fidanzato. La cosa mi sembrò insolita, ma io ne approfittai subito per uscire da quelle mura che a volte erano cosi soffocanti; finalmente potevo sentire il rumore del traffico, potevo camminare per le strade piene di negozi, ah…che bello poter sentire l’aroma del caffé caldo in qualche bar e finalmente poter mangiare una bella sfogliatella napoletana , ero stufa di vedere solo suore e ragazze, finalmente vedevo qualcuno che non apparteneva al mio sesso!

Eccitata da questi pensieri , mi preparai in gran fretta , non vedevo l’ora di uscire e respirare un’altra aria!

Arrivammo a casa di mio cognato, con mia sorpresa notai che c’erano anche i miei due fratelli, erano in aria di festa…sentivo il vocio di parenti ed amici… non capivo che avvenimento potesse mai essere quello se persino i miei fratelli che non amano le feste erano lì, mia nonna non c’era, neanche mia zia, a pensarci bene eravamo solo noi quattro fratelli e il fidanzato di mia sorella con la sua famiglia. Ma c’era anche un’altra persona che mai avrei immaginato …….

Dopo essermi ripresa dallo stupore per quell’ atmosfera, mio fratello maggiore venne verso di me, aveva l’aria di uno che aveva una grande notizia da dare, mi portò in cucina chiedendomi di indovinare chi fosse quella donna seduta al tavolo. Appena la vidi…ebbi un tonfo al cuore! Era la donna della foto, quella foto che non avevo più trovato…era la donna di cui chiedevo ripetutamente senza avere mai risposta……ora la vedevo in carne e ossa, notai la somiglianza con mia sorella…ecco allora a chi somigliava e improvvisamente intuii che quella donna era ……..MIA MADRE.

Avevo quasi paura di pronunciare quella parola, non ero stata abituata ad usare la parola “mamma”, dopo tutto era la prima volta che la vedevo ed ero frastornata, mia madre scoppiò in lacrime e rossa dalla commozione mi abbracciò forte ma io non riuscivo a provare niente…ero solo confusa. Ecco, ti ho raccontato di come ho conosciuto mia madre…..avevo 14 anni, troppo pochi per capire la vita ma abbastanza da farmi comprendere che non era normale conoscere la propria madre a quell’età, ora avevo mille e altre mille domande da fare…il resto se vuoi…te lo racconterò
la prossima volta…

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A TUTTI GLI OMOFOBI

di marco benedetti

E’ triste vedere che non mi conosci,non sai cosa mangio non sai cosa bevo,non sai se prego,non sai se penso.
E triste vedere che mi odi perche’ ti amo.

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LA CICOGNA

di DOMENICO DE MARENGHI

La grande cicogna
è appena atterrata,
portando con sé
la bimba più amata!

Mamma e papà
con quel fagottino
dal piglio orientale
e un po’ birichino

andarono lieti
incontro al destino,
stregati e corrotti
da quel sorrisino!

Profusi all’arrivo
con grande fervore,
dagli amici di sempre
di affetto e calore,

legati dal tempo
nell’arcano destino,
loro grati, per sempre,
porgiamo l’inchino!

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Il mio amico speciale

di Maria G. Benacquista

Molto dolce e musicale, il tuo nome
come dolce è il tuo sguardo.
Cammini con me ad ogni istante
e sempre ci sei quando ti chiamo.

Ed ora che la mia vita è stravolta
e abissi mi circondano ad ogni lato,
quando più ho bisogno della tua presenza
hai sempre una parola di conforto.

Parole belle e delicate
giungono dalle tue labbra alle mie orecchie
fino a raggiungere la profondità del mio essere
y si attaccano come spillo nella mia anima.

Vorrei camminare nel sentiero
che abbiamo tracciato nel tempo.
Insieme a te i miei sogni volano liberi
fino a raggiungere le cime più alte.

Amico mio, sei speciale
la tua presenza mi arricchisce ed è vitale.
Ringrazio la tua tenerezza senza pari
e per incrociare un giorno il mio cammino.

Sarò sempre in un angolo di questo mondo
offrendoti la mia luce e il mio affetto
e sempre vorrei illuminare il tuo cammino
per vedere un sorriso nelle tue labbra.

Sei prezioso gioiello di smeraldi
che non si mostra in collana d’oro bianco,
si porta ben appeso nell’anima,
con orgoglio e molta vanità.

Se mi cerchi sempre m’incontri,
se ti chiamo sempre mi rispondi,
cosi vorrei sempre stare
ad un passo da te.

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GUARDANDO IL CIELO

di IGNAZIO AMICO

Luna, che fai stasera?
Candida signora del cielo,
che silenziosa sorvegli gli umani
rishiarandone il cammino;
muta tstimone di gioie e dolori,
di promesse e amori, registri ogni cosa
che sulla terra accade; pietosa
stendi veli d’argento sulle vane speranze,
quasi un luminoso ponte fra terra e cielo,
che smorza i toni delle passioni
e tutto addolcisce e fa leggero.
Cosa pensi di me, discreta amica?
Mi hai visto infante e poi crescendo
diventar maturo; c’è scritto il nome mio
sul tuo diario e così, pallida luna,
se stasera ti va scambiar parola,
commentiamo una vita che s’invola.

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Pittore senza talento

di Maria G. Benacquista

Dedicata a tutti coloro che amano la pittura e sebbene senza talento, con tante illusioni, cominciano il lungo percorso della creazione della loro opera.

Combinando i colori
con idee e illusioni,
un paesaggio ho in mente
e prende forma ad ogni tratto.

Quasi tutto è perfetto,
mancano solo i dettagli.

Le colline che si affacciano
si mostrano ribelli
e dopo vani tentativi
le sue forme sono informi.

Verdi chiari e verdi scuri
si mescolano tra loro
e le tonalità
sono confuse e imperfette.

Senza talento io dipingo
ma un grande amore mi guida
è l’amore per la pittura,
i colori ei pennelli.

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Fratelli

di Maria G. Benacquista

Come castelli di sabbia
si sbriciolano i sogni.
Fratelli, figli dello stesso padre,
separati e nascosti
da bugie e ipocrisie.

Figli di madri diverse.
Illusioni infantili
frantumate in un attimo.
Vite marcate
dall’abbandono di un padre,
che senza amore né coscienza
giocò doppia partita.

Ambiguità, silenzi e bugie
separano i bambini per sempre.
L’indifferenza regna.
Percorsi solitari, d’eterna lontananza.

Vite parallele che mai convergono,
senza ricordi di vita condivisa
nel trascorrere degli anni.

Bambini divenuti uomini senza parole condivise,
né affetto reciproco, né amore fraterno.

Destini che non coincidono mai
sebbene il sangue che scorre nelle vene
è essenza della stessa origine.

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Passione

di Luana Andronico

Impeto,
fuoco,
brucia dentro,
mi divora
con le sue implacabili braccia,
lo sento,
è dentro di me,ovunque
fa un pò male,
ma non riesco a farne a meno.
Perchè?
E’ così sottilmente bello,
intrigante,
eccitante,
essere avvolta da queste bollenti spire;
Mi sollevano,