What is a poet?

 

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Some say a poet

Is a master of words

bringing emotions

Is that to be a poet?

Maybe he is, but I’m not so sure

I’ve always thought

A poet was a sort of prophet

Showing a way to walk through

But I’m not so sure anymore

I just wanted to be happy, not a poet…

But I’m not so sure even on that 

If I were happy would not be a poet…

But a poet is not just a rhymer, or a verse maker…

A poet is a searcher for love!

I know

We need something new in the world…

A new way of loving

 

Then I discovered Jesus

His life, His message

That’s true love!

My Mantra

 

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My mantra leads me far

out of the daily usual borders

of the surrounding physical space:

and it seems to me so different and deceptive

the ancestral conception of the world,

when the mind lays down

on shapeless spots of indistinct colored flashes

and now drowns on them, happily unconscious,

then pursues the swallows

along the sounding corridors they trace in the air,

lost in their twittering accents

which nothing explain to human intellect

but yet lighten up all its restless minds!

 

And while the world regains

Its usual forms,

a doubt re-emerges slowly to surface:

if it were better for us to discover

how we are connected to nature

before seeking

new, remote and distant worlds!

Don’t ask me why

 

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07H44DYF7

Don' t ask me why I've been there;

I had to  fill the emptiness of my days

lost in the nothingness

with no place to go to;

Don't ask me why;

I only remember now

 the time of hope

The smoking rings

The dreaming trips

That's our life

Made of mistakes

Driven by mysterious course

Aimed to search

What you think to be true

And time cheater of our senses

Only God

Do not  mislead

Our souls.

The Major Thirteen

 

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The first time

I dreamed the Major Thirteen

I was just over sixty

 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.

In a middle-class drama

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07H44DYF7

 

I slice on pieces my tie

And throw them on your persona

 

I laugh of you

Using my hands at your table

in a natural way

 

I hear 

Clanging my chains

When I move on

slowly

 

You also know it

But you don’t want to  listen to

‘cause they are your own chains too!

 

So we spend our lives

playing a drama

somebody else has written

just for ourselves.

Flower of Antioch

 

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Goodbye flower of Antioch

I’ve sucked your nectar

For a day

And then

I flew away!

 

I wish fate

had made me not bee

So I would not be here

In  search of blooming flower

Looking for inexistent

Happiness

But I would be between your petals

Fragrant of love

Alone in the trembling evening

 

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When the vagueness of illusion

It is no longer day

In the shadow of the flame

I expect you to reach me

From undefined directions

For the countless paths

That lead   souls to souls.

I wonder if a heart beats with mine!

But I am lonely

In the trembling evening.

London for ever - 32

- "This is really hell! But where have  you brought us? "Jokes Giampiero, trying to slip the crowd.

- "You're an arthropod elephant!" I cut him in the same joking tone.

Michelle nods provocatively, ironizing, as she has done for some time, on his ever massive mole. It's a bit of time I know these arrows between the two, so much that I seemed to be the symptom of an embryo crisis. But that must not be so. You do not schedule a return together if the couple  does not work anymore. Or maybe you do it? As a matter of fact it could be  just an "escamotage" to overcome the problems, to postpone them, not to see them, trying to solve them by the passage of time; a psychological alibi like to blame the environmental problems in London, the lack of children, the precariousness of work, or who knows what else.

- "Did you succeeded on let her talking  to her for a bit?" - Michelle asks me looking at Martine and settling on the wide-lined sofa.

- "She has not been silent for a moment since you left us alone!"

We sneeze for a long time. Adding our laughter to the innumerable and indistinct of the various rooms in the room. Suddenly, like magically, the auditory circuits detach themselves and suddenly silence is gone. There are only a few guitar chords, and without any notice, everyone is silent. The "clou" of the evening begins. The audience keeps a religious, collected, mystical silence. Everyone follows the concert in his own way. Who dreams, who beats the rhythm with one foot in an improvised and unlikely solfeggio; Who tapping his fingers somewhere and who shaking his head; But everyone is lost in music and in total recollection. The concert begins  with a solo music track: the rhythmic base of bass and drums blends with the "riffs" of the solo guitar, while the accompaniment blends everything up. Then the singer enters with his loud, humorous voice telling the classic blues themes, but in the form of rock, creating a good mix of music.

The singer now alternates singing with the accordion, while the other musicians show that they can also play the saxophone and the violin: I travel with the mind along endless freeways, from one side to the other of the American coast; I see the sun rise and I see it setting down; I cry for time, women and friends who will never return. Sax, violin and solo guitar speak with charm; the harmonica, laughing, daring and sublime, touches the most striking strings of the soul.

32. to be continued...

My Mother Earth

My Mother Earth

Who knows where I've been in the last twenty centuries?

May be I was a roman soldier

guarding the Adrian Wall

where I met a pale blue eyes blonde love

to warm my winters

to show me love is anywhere

anyhow.

and I was scattered back

on some Mediterranean  coast

groping with the Normans

a new life, which is also

and again an old life;

like that I had as Greek's slave

before my manumission

when I captured those

I had been conquered by.

And when  I'll be searching

for other worlds

far in the skies

will I remember

 my Mother Earth?

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And I’m still lonely like a stone

And I’m still lonely

Like a stone.

When you are alone at  birth

You'll live alone

Forever.

Only God

Makes me not feel 

alone!

In Sardinia, on  1990

Love versus Fear

Will it be love
If I close my mind to you
There locking
All the deepest
feelings of my life?

Will it be love
If I don’t need you
To share
My troubled soul?

Will it be love
If I am shy
To caress you
Though I’d like
To melt
My energy’s body
With yours?


Will it be love
If I like you only first
And after I don’t?


Do we impoverish
Our bodies
because of their minds
Or are we declassing our minds
Through their own bodies?

It might only be
Love against fear
As we are not made only by stuff!



Sardinia the 19th September 1983

We are eternal

Carlos Santana is a great guitar player. The Magazine Rolling Stone places him at the 15th best guitar player of any time. I add, by myself, that may be is the best living guitar player.
And he's also a great spirit. He believes we are energy which never dies; though he does not believe in religions.
Once I also used to follow this sort of "New Ages", born after the great sixties' spiritual movements (like the sons of the flowers, hippie's movements and things like that).
Of course I left them all behind me, after discovering the greatness of Jesus who came on the earth to die for us and to give us the eternal life.
Keep on playing your guitar Carlos; I hope one day, far away in the time, you'll be playing for the Angels, in the Heaven, 'cause I know your spirit is a good one.