Sparks of faith

 

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JPK5MCD 

 Then came a Man

 

I remember when

at  winter solstice,

 we danced under the stars

to propitiate  favors by gods!

Then came a Man,

Son of the Only true God!

I still look at  skies 

when stars assemble in December!

 But now I know who to pray

for humanity's  weaknesses

and for the beauty of the world

I have someone to thank!

Echoes from a sad soul

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0C8YY6R71

I don’t know why people are strange

‘cause   never want to make a change

  I might look  the same at their own eyes

My  poetry no new ways tries

I always search reasons of life

And I dislike all human strife

I‘ve been long time singing of love

Something like more a mourning dove

 

I claim for peace and brotherhood

I fear to be misunderstood

I cry the times have gone away

I should depart but still I stay

 

Never will change a poet’s heart

Always will live the world apart

That’s our fate I might believe

Can’t never get  what we conceive!

Echoes from a sad soul

 

Four men in search of the truth

 

There were four men

searching for truth.

They all knew

that sixteen hundred years before

Someone was asked

by a washing hands' man

to say its meaning.

 

One of them

is on the Tower of Pisa

which is still bending

since then

'cause he refused

to declare the earth is flat

to the clergy men

to the rappers of truth

 

Several miles away

another one is convicted

by other false truth holders

he has lost his wife

he's lost his goods

he's lost his freedom

and he's Lost Paradise

 

And Torquato

has been serving

for seven years through

in a madhouse

for his poetry was  full of truth.

 

The fourth man lies

straight and tall

in the middle of a square

where his unfortunate harsh

took the place of the flowers

He seems to warn the passing-bys:

"Please, mind the truth!"

 

 

Echoes from a sad soul

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0C8YY6R71

Please keep on singing

 

Tie me like Ulysses,

I don’t want

 run to death

hearing those songs!

Bind me Lord!

But you keep on singing!

The sins are not yours

for the shores I crave

or the eyes I seek

or the thrills of my restless soul!

I beg you to keep on singing.

Echoes from a sad soul

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JL32VL5

Listen to the voice of the poet

 

Come on big men of the world

You that owe the power

You have already had much money

To move on soldiers

You have already had much gold

To feel stronger

You have already had luxury palaces

To live comfortably safer in

And fields, ground, soil, trees,

Rivers, lakes and seas.

 

You have taken in everything your eyes can see to the horizon.

 

But do you really believe that your power will last forever?

 

Don’t you remember Ramses the Third,

Cyrus of Persia,

Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar

Alexander the Great,

the emperor Augustus

and all the kings of the past up to Napoleon?

 

You’re now inventing new richness made of nothing

You’re exploiting the soil under its surface

And even you’re searching for more in the universe

Still cheating the poor!

 

Listen to the voice of the poet men of power:

don’t never forget

for whom God created all the things of the world!

 

Songs for Elem

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B016FL9MVA

Ain’t that love?

 

My love was desperation

Because around me

It was all emptiness,

And I just needed 

A  heart beating for me

To fill my longing to love!

 

But  is it love?

 

If our  fate

has brought us here together

Oh Elem

And I have seen on you

The end of  loneliness

When  counting down

the minutes between us

And if  I pained   leaving

rejoiced coinciding

staring at any people

  

Searching of you

And if I  winced up 

At any resembling  shadow

And you were become a master

of my any single dream

 devoured by anxiety  

and I didn’t feel  hunger nor thirst

 

And every single thought, 

Every single word,

Every single thing

Every single person

were you

 

Isn’t that love?

The Dreamer

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

Chapter 2

In order to relax I recalled the preceding events, starting from the moment I had firstly met my friend George.

I had known him early in the summer 1979, in a little snack bar of the centre, in the beginning of my London stay. A snack-cafe not so far from Piccadilly Circus, where they made a slightly drinkable coffee. I used to go there, because it was the only place where the coffee was served in the small, classical, Italian cups, and even if it was served with no cream, was still better than that watered black soap that almost all barmen sell off for coffee in England.

The bar was housed in a large rectangular room. On the right of the entry there was the counter with the coffee-machine, while both on the left and the opposite wall, in front of the entry-door, there was a wood bench, lined in plastics of brown color, and, straight above, lined in the identical way, a same long but narrower shelf, plenty of sugar-bowls and ashtrays.

The left wall, for the whole length of the bench, beginning from the shelf and finishing to the originally white-painted ceiling, was made of a thick transparent glass that, giving brightness to the place, allowed the visitors to enjoy a wide outside sight where, just in front, it was well visible the entrance of a theatre with an ample and luxurious atrium.

It was there that George seemed to stare up his look, over the round glasses (like John Lennon’s, I had thought). His olive complexion, the chestnut hair and the black moustaches didn't make him certainly look like a probable Queen’s subject, but I questioned him, this not less, in English. Also because, after all we were in London. What other idiom was I supposed to speak?

He burst into laughter, hearing my question. Not immediately, but after turning his head to look at me, with a funny expression on his face, while with my hands I repeated my request for fire, rubbing, at the same time, my right forefinger on the palm of the left hand.

Lighting his own cigarette, as I stood close and steady, much more interdict than angry, because of his crazy laughing, he told me in a strongly stressed, though smooth, Italian language:

- «Sorry for laughing, but Italian people do make notice of them, when they speak English. You come from Rome, don’t you?» -, he suddenly added, smiling with satisfaction to my sad, affirmative answer.

The place, beside the two of us and a girl sitting on the other side of the bench, was empty. The barkeeper, behind the counter, was preparing a great copy of sandwiches, with cheese and tomatoes, lettuce and meats and a few others with all four ingredients together, according to the best English taste.

- «And you, where do you come from?» - I asked him in some annoyed tone for that reference to the Italian’s accent and particularly to that of the Romans, whose noble descendants I am still proud to belong.

-« I am not Italian» - he answered to me with peaceful voice «but I have lived quite a lot of years in Italy. So I know your customs quite well, and also your accent» -, concluded laughing again tastefully.

This time his laughing, however, didn't upset me at all. Those few words had been enough to make my anger fade away; or maybe I was just only glad to talk to someone without squeezing my brain to translate my thoughts from Italian into English language.

to be continued...

 

 

 

 

The Dreamer

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

First Part

Chapter 1

 

«I will soon be back, make yourselves at home, please» said the man going out. We looked at each other, George and I. It had only been from the morning that we didn’t have a chance to stay on our own.

«That’s a real story of madness! » he burst out taking a seat in one of the four wood armchairs that were around a circular table in the center of the small room. «This man must be crazy! Let's put him off as soon as is back and let's escape from here, until we are in time», he added while I was taking a seat in front of him.

«Just a moment, George, maybe it will seem strange to you, but I don't feel afraid of this man! He inspires a sort of trust in me, despite his strangeness».

«But do you realize what you are talking about? Have you gone out of sense too? This man must have some extraordinary powers: hasn't he hypnotized us just slightly before? Have you also heard him talk of super-races and brain's experiments or have I dreamed of it?», George attacked me nervously.

«Be quiet, please, George», I told him in a calm voice. «First of all, I don't believe he has hypnotized us, just before. Secondly, if he is really so powerful as you say, what could be his reaction, when we try to immobilize him? Make a point on it:  when we arrived here, we were both sleepy. If he wanted therefore to use us as guinea-pigs, two punctures were enough for him to knock us down!  I have not seen yet neither cats resembling mice, nor men with a square brain!

 

 Who can be sure that the old man is not inventing everything? It would not surprise me if this story derived from the imagination of some fantastical writer. I want to go to the end of all these circumstances. Don’t you also want to know what kind of job's proposal Mr Winningoes is going to make for us?»

George gazed for a long time into my eyes, thoughtfully. Then, without answering, he relaxed on the back of the chair, releasing the muscles and breathing deeply.

He stood with half open eyes crossing at once the feet and the hands softly on the womb, with the right hand covering the palm of the left one. He seemed to me almost slept, while only the breath animated his body.

Won by all those unexpected and subsequent emotions, I also imitated him doing my best on sitting comfortably on the wood ancient chair.

 

 

The Major thirteen

 

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CW1FTLMB

The first time

I dreamed the Major Thirteen

I was just over sixty.

I was dreaming of falling down to sea

With no parachute.

Before to splat the water

I asked the wind

To appease my drop:

So did the wind.

And I started singing.

Say the fishermen

along the Cornwall coast,

if they hear a song

at windy full moon nights:

That’s might be my song.

The sinkholed's plea

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0C99HPDG9

If you find a skeleton

tied by wires to another skeleton,

tied to another skeleton

and still to another one, that’s me.

Do not look for me in any place,

in a hole or in a ditch.

I lie in those deep and twisted cavities

Flowed by rivers

 which are common in the Kras  region

shared by Italy, Slovenia and Croatia

and ill-famed as  swallow holes.

 

Please wrap me in a wired drape

and give what rests of my body

 back to my beloveds,

to my homeland

and to the things of God.

I hate no one and forgive all.

Just one last thing I’m going to ask you:

open the eyes of your children to the truth!

 

The Dreamer: a romance of madness and love

 

 

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

Chapter 8

How had succeeded, that strange old man, in transporting those visions down our sights, below the windows? The same visions I had still in my mind, being so fresh and real, we had just lived right that Friday of 9th November 1979 I was relating to!

We walked silently. Sometimes we crossed some hasty passing or perceived, almost more than hear it, as a fleeting apparition, a car or a motorbike whose nose was spaced out slowly, as absorbed and diluted in the immensity of the surrounding silence. Turning around several times, after an indefinite time, that desert of dry leaves seemed to stop against an iron handrail.

From my point of observation, tall brushes of trees hid the horizon and I could only see, slightly swaying in the void, a green poster with the write “Winpey “in block red-dark characters.

I felt a pleasant excitement throughout my body. A feeling that immediately was of lightness. A desire to let my body flow in the air, toward that poster, flying the sky.

 As we went down the stairway, the view, under us, revealed his real contours.

That poster, that seemed to me like suspended in the air from my previous point of view, was the summit of the tall pylon of a crane that laid in the center of an immense housing estate.

I watched again toward that write and noticed that it was hacked against a loaded leady sky with no change of tonality. A dark and heavy vault until my eyes could see.

To find the access of the yard that occupied a wide place in the center of a crossroad, we walked for a half along his perimeter. The thick tables that bounded it were interspaced by half an inch, around through numerous working machines were glimpse: diggers, shovels, concrete mixers, kneaders, all firm, as dead animals, in the most total silence.

The entrance was exactly on the opposite side of the inn from where, for the first time, I had perceived the pylon of the crane. We reached it, after a quick and silent walk. Between working machines and shovels, heaps of sand and piles of sacks of cement, bricks, lumber, irons and utensils, we noticed a small cottage of red plate that was almost in the centre of the building yard. We were approaching there when a small door opened out of the shed.

«Hello boys!» A gentleman said sorting out. « Can I help you?»

His voice was cordial and happy. It seemed he was talking to well known persons.

«Is there any need for some workers?», George did him without preambles and also laughing.

We stopped a little closer and so I had the opportunity to better observe him: he looked quite a lot peaky, making a net contrast with the strong black of the hair. He dressed with elegance a brown suit on a white shirt with a red and black cravat.

«I would not mind at all», the man replied in the former jovial tone -«but our firm assumes only through the agency. Now I will give you the address so you can go and see it. There are good hopes. Follow me into the office, please» -, he spurred on, seeing us so undecided.

The office looked like a building field. As matter of fact inside there were numerous buckets full of hammers, chisels, pickets, water levels, trowels and other mason utensils.

Once inside, Mr. Joking (that was the name he had introduced himself, asking us in turn our names) immediately passed beyond a desk loaded on with papers, different samples of colored tiles and some minute utensils. He scrutinized us for a long while.

« Where do you come from?» He asked after a careful examination, dissuading his look.

«From Italy» George promptly responded, preceding me.

We seemed to overcome his examination, because he smiled in a satisfied way.

«Here is your agency’s address» he said after scribbling some lines on a piece of paper, - «and good luck!», added while handing the note to George!

We had not even had the time to read it that we heard a strong aloud voice:

«Old Pat doesn't stand people pronouncing his name and that of his Agency in a wrong way and above all he doesn't bear to be told any lies. If you do it, you won't have any job from him».

Then, turning to Mr Joking he added:

«Sir Patrick the Hanger Winnin’goes again, doesn’t he?» Only later on we had to realize that the big man we saw rudely laughing, turning a look back on our shoulders, was not misgiving English language at all, as he willingly wanted but to stress the wrong verb, like he really did.

George stood perplexed, with the note in his hand, now looking at the big man, who was still laughing, now Mr. Joking, who seemed rather embarrassed than enjoyed.

I walked closer when I saw him reading the note. On a single line the note said:

"Pat Winningoes - Gehenna Geld", and nothing else.

«Strange names, the last two. They sound quite German», George exclaimed in a low voice.

«He has not even put the telephone number. Shall we ask for it?» I said.

«We might take a look for it on the telephone guide. Still if it really does exist»,

George murmured. putting the note in his pocket while sorting out the cottage. We walked out without even greeting, with fast and nervous footsteps. Before reaching the exit of the yard, nevertheless, we heard a man’s call.

« Hey, wait a moment, please!», Mr. Joking came rushing slightly breathing towards us.

«Do not pay attention to Big Joe, please! He is a joker» he added gently, smiling like he had made the first time, with a tone of reassuring voice.

«Come over with me, please» , he said, driving us over the exit.

«You cross the road in that direction and take the avenue you have in front; then, taking the third street on your left, that can’t be wrong, you will see a big door in dark wood. There is the agency. Go in….. and...... good luck»!

He had spoken all of a breath and in such a convincing way that we had already forgotten Big Joe and his strange former laughing. The avenue that Mr Joking had pointed us, was really the third crossroad on the left. It was a blind, wide and short alley.

At the bottom a massive dark wood doorway was standing out, occupying all the breath of the street..

More than the entry of a job’s agency, it seemed to be the entrance of a rich and luxurious residence. A few steps in marble lead to an extraordinarily glimmering atrium, to whose sides were risen, also in marble, two mighty columns.

George, walking the steps, almost was very close to stumbling. He restored his equilibrium immediately, murmuring an annoyed "My goodness!" and looking on the bottom of his shoes, like searching for the cause of the accident.

The wind was blowing more insistently, and formed in the alley a strong eddy, violently shaking above the front door a rectangular poster which was bestowed with some scotch tape, held out against the wind on a unique side. With my right hand I stopped it on the front door. We read there, in a clear handwriting and cursive characters:

"London Trickery and Illusion Centre."

«But where the hell did they send us?» said George looking at me.

«I do not know!», I answered, releasing the side of the poster, which retook immediately to wave.

«They made a joke of us, those two braggarts!», I told him with an angry voice. Then turning to my companion - «Didn't we make a mistake by wrongly counting the road crossings?», I said returning back on our steps to check in.

«Come soon to have a look, please!», cried George in that while, with an excited tone of voice.

I quickly returned to my footsteps and drew close to him. With the right hand he stopped the poster on the front door and surprisingly I could read on it this time - "Pat Winningoes - Geenna Geld Agency - 1st Floor."

«What devil of history is this? »-, I told George, who was looking at me in a mocking way, with the right hand still fixing the poster on the door.

-« The history is all here» , he answered. And with emphatic gestures as a conjurer who discloses an amazing trick to the public, he turned the poster from one side to another, showing the different writings we had read on it just a little before. I turned it a couple of times, to make myself convinced, while George was already pushing the other half of the front door.

to be continued...