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Gabriella Garofalo - 3 poems

6/22/2016

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Picture
1.
Can you believe it? High voltage - 
Light, maybe a stalked existence - 
Every demise gets nestled in the prophets 
While the wind dashes in, breaks your windows open 
And light schemes axed blue, your true shades - 
We all know grass doesn’t deserve you since she dried up - 
No fuss, demise, do it now, get those sun-crumbled days: 
Remember when they prattled of heaven, 
Adverse wombs and you heeded 
To the old bones’ tale? 
A lot of bustle tonight, some hiss in the garden, 
Some run to exile, some fall in a blue funk - 
Those two, look, battling stares on an even match, 
He shouts for life, she looks away - 
Green light in your first words, 
Then you start reading, lose sense 
As wintry afternoons don’t crash your house 
In frenzied demise, they look so different 
From April afternoons with deep-rooted light 
That makes you look at sunsets so far from answers, 
At underground black trains, 
The sad losers where wind shuts off 
And words get under skin - 
You can’t join them if they bet their garments away - 
Bet your desire, no one will mind, 
Bet bastard years, girls chatting away in a cybercafé - 
All dressed in blue, the drive of creation 
Might even run through your soul, 
Snowy branches sprout leaves, 
The forest give breathing back - 
Just for a sec, just fancy - 
You wouldn’t believe it, it’s high voltage, 
High tension, if light keeps at them 
Even life.


***
2.

Nuclear weapons, over-cluttered churches, guiles 
Freak out over earthquakes, purity does not: 
Nothing to lose - 
Was she like that last time 
You gave her the breath of life, 
Wildly dancing around while you welcomed 
With bolts and blackout the light of candles, 
Her dissent? 
Funny how wintry days can give you back 
The light where you would dream of your creation, friends - 
Too bad dreams get shaky jolts, don’t they, 
And light is rowdy, look, they’re here, 
Yet you don’t mind - 
You bet, they keep smirking 
When mourning the dead or laying the living to rest, 
The old ladies who choose the final bed 
For women missing or taken aback - 
So easy when it comes to children: 
They dissolve in your eyes without a scant misgiving - 
Who bloody cares, you said, 
Let them smiles hunt and harass 
So long as meadows run and touch the sky - 
Maybe - 
But only if you don’t reject to silence, God, 
The meadows of a soul ready for your hands - 
Almost.


***
3.
Oh, what a crying shame 
Those useless hydrangeas 
All over the white tray - 
Sometimes they look dyslexic - 
Well, so to say - 
Yet they require a close attention: 
Fractures sickness and death 
Hold sway among words 
As men and women tell tales 
Over a cup of coffee and hugs to the trees - 
How very swanky indeed - 
You know, it happens on those spring nights - 
Not here, in some uncharted lands 
Where the sky steals the show 
And words slow down 
Like drops of absinthe, maybe rain - 
The outsider keeps silent: 
Blue, your unsuitable colour 
If branches and underwood 
Spring everywhere, then whisper to you 
“Truth is a reed, snap it now” 
All the while stalking preys - 
Hold on, are they lizards or words? 
Dunno, so much for hunger and sky 
Standing still on the border - 
But why don’t they ditch you, 
They deserve better, 
Not yours, but a light 
Who doesn’t bother with asking “May I?”, 
A light on the run who grabs jets of lava, 
Or suddenly hides - 
She knows she can’t stop bodies, broken laws, 
Infesting germs worse than weeds or mothers, 
She knows eternity’ll never keep silent: 
Actually, too much asking made her blind - 
Or sadly wasted as your trusted sidekick.




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