Roccia extraterrestre

Le api e le farfalle vedono
che ella allatta gli Aster
come un giardiniere

Ella canta loro il blues; sceglie per ella stessa
un campione di Aster per la capsula del poema

Suo marito è un Superman per lei
ma nel loro campo scientifico non possono
sfuggire al loro pianeta morente in allegria

Dopo l’ultima tempesta di rocce spaziali,
tempesta di politici arroganti che non hanno fatto nulla
(non adornava gli onorevoli allori per loro), si allora
dopo l’aster, la loro città adorata era nel caos, ma

Lanciano i loro messaggi e
manda i loro Cassandra verso la Terra

È una poesia infuocata
ma fa un colpo d’occhio.
Bees and butterflies see
that she nurses the Asters
like a gardener

She sings them the blues; she chooses for herself
a sample of Aster for the capsule of the poem

Her husband is a Superman for her
but in their scientific field they cannot
escape their dying planet in joy

After the last storm of space rocks,
storm of arrogant politicians who did nothing
(did not adorn honorable laurels for them), yes then
after the aster, their beloved city was in chaos, but

They launch their messages and
send their Cassandras to the Earth

It’s a fiery poem
but it makes a glance.


Elle était mon icône, parce que
elle m’a appris à chanter

J’étais pour elle de une mélodie d’amusement
jusqu’à ce que nous avons organisé et jeté
un opéra d’iconoclastes,
un acte de foi déguisé
être en train de sauter sur un lit de joie
dans une farce de l’amour devenu réalité
She was my icon, because
she taught me to sing

I was for her a fun melody
until we organized and threw
an iconoclastic opera,
an act of faith disguised
to be jumping on a bed of joy
in a farce of love come true

È una sinfonia

Lo schianto della piatti musicali
è il suono dei tempi
i simboli dei cembali musicali a giocare
come le bacchette volanti con i dischi
strumento musicale della dissonanza

Ma il suono di
E la gloria del gioco è una sinfonia
con cembali, come simbolo,
corna in allarme e il trionfo

Ma la musica rotolato in campo di gioco
e le regole scontri trasformarono la condotta
quando è stato fatto così da un obiettivo
in un crescendo e in un finale
The crash of musical cymbals
it’s the sound of the times
the symbols of musical cymbals to play
like flying wands with disks
musical instrument of dissonance

But the sound of
And the glory of the game is a symphony
with cymbals, as a symbol,
horns in alarm and triumph

But the music rolled into the playing field
and the rules of conflict transformed the conduct
when it was done so by a goal
in a crescendo and in a finale

The Dress of Battle

The battle is lost and
I have not saved anyone.
She left with
nothing to wear
and nothing to say
when I sent her away.

Empty wars she said, and
she is not rescued nor am I.

How do you know if
the sun will shine
when the night is dark
and she has left forever

It is so cold alone
to be naked in the night
interrupted by bombs

Why dress for death
when lost blood is warm

How am I to bleed well
when she doesn’t love me anymore
and there is no rescue. Honor?

I don’t think the sun will rise
and I have no clothes
but her memory

Cat Wine

She’s wondering
if there’s been
nearly enough verse in a year
to fill a potion glass with cat wine

If then, perhaps, half a tale more
will be enough this year
to lick happiness
catch the tickle feather
teach puppies to meow and fly,
pussies to howl at the moon,
or play with a ball invitation
where the poetess has
the Cinderella glass
half full enough
to dance with the
Prince without portfolio
who owns a pumpkin farm
where a couple of stars can
twinkle in rhythms like
a rhyme wine glistens

Dark Goose

He still had his subway pass,
city shoes, expired employee badge,
invalid railway ticket to former places.

Too much iron in the field,
or cyanide from gold mines.

The city fool
with books and trinkets,
thought he’d escape explosions
through cows and pigs and many digs.

He dynamited the outcrops,
plowed the field,
yet weird corn
(twisted patterns)
plagued him. Met the locals.

Mischievous kids staring at the fire,
mother with the welcome pie,
medallion on the mantelpiece,
kids with designs.

Trampled stalks in ancient designs
seemed the work of little minds,
the minor demons some
rural parents breed,
dirt bored,
intractable plowed-out
fallow follies.

Maybe they thought he meddled
in buried treasure
neglecting tradition:
the earnest mettle to toil,
to seed, to plant, to struggle,
to honor nature, and ancient maize.

Never majoring in archeology,
he rode the stocks,
denied his destiny:
this farm his blunder retirement,
a vision quest, but now,

by corn, with
flocks of black cacophony
cawing his ears,
lightning strikes the scarecrow.

Below the char, a stone base,
a Mother Goose book,
an amulet of Merlin, he finds,
not child’s play.

Gem seizures dance him in steps,
explosive, driven by visions:
flying bloody arms,
dove feathers scattered,
dust debris done in doom.

He prays casual quakes in angst
not release the lava of ancient
curses cast below the cinders.

A frenzied man can, more than straw,
babble incantations
bubble coherence of foam, oozed
below the stone with char,
entrance to caves, grave marker,
not for mere farmers.

Into tall stalking corn, he took
coded words, spells,
mystical verses,
kicked an old soccerball
through poem-grown fields,
mocked an ancient wielded word
by plowing with a hockey stick,
looking for weapons,
supposed fiddle swords
reposed against planted wizards.

In rutty mud he grooved
inscriptions before more floods
to conjure the sorceress gone.

In faltering sun her arm lifted up,
silk to kernel, eternal mother.
Mother Goose stood in the corn field
a Statue of Liberty, commanding

“Little boy blue
come blow your oboe
the bleep’s in the meadow,
a Noah sings the blues.

“Flood the fields with whistles
my river-heart boy.

“Send the floating spirits’ keys,
the nursery stymied rhymes to me;
if you will come into my harbor,
I will lift my lamp
beside the golden time.”


I am so cold in August
trying to be a puff ball like a Dandelion,
wishing you’d look
at the seed ball as you blow:
each seed on little parachute
to carry onto
lawns of possibility.

Weeds wish to land,
embed and grow. But no,
no one will let the weed speak.

I am hot to plant an idea
even in winter.

Where is your greenhouse —
I am not merely fuzz: look closer
I am a soul on a parachute
hoping to land on a soulmate and
not to snag on a
telephone pole or power line.

Lawns are too pretty plain;
let me be a flower in the lapel of love
deserving a puff piece in the journal of fulfillment.

Cyrano’s Sword

Words of love from her
promise relief and defeat
of evil sorrows loosed
on the world by swords
forged in ignorance, yet

I still don’t see how
harp words are mightier
than the thunder swords
of nature’s fury
striking out like
a twisted tree branch
of doom

For their protuberance,
even swordfish sword play
although they eat not tubers
like men with sword poles
who cast in waters
for fighters and the
fishy taste of war

When there’s pillaging in the village,
the women who love love
want the men to fight
to love them from harm.

We shall be nosey
sniffing for evil before perfume
having pearls before swine

We must lust for a fight
and fight for a lust
if we are to blow our own noses.

Without a love fight
I’d have cold
to sneeze away my life
because harp words
are not sharp swords
though her words cut me

Il Tocco al Cuore

Vedo il punto della tua scherma;
toccami e sarò la tua sottile spada da pazzo
perché principalmente stai toccando:
vieni qui piccola
e abbracciami forte,
e non ci sederemo sul recinto,

quindi tesoro,
metti il ​​tuo cuore
con grazia nella danza
per il colpo d’amore
The Touch to the Heart

I see the point of your fencing;
touch me and I’ll be your thin crazy sword
because mainly you’re touching:
come here baby
and hug me tight,
and we will not sit on the fence,

so honey,
put your heart
gracefully in the dance
for the stroke of love