The history of poetry in all ages is the attempt to find new images for the moon. -Tom Robbins "Still life with woodpecker"

Untitled (Thinking about Death)

There’s a garden in my mind
Somewhere down a gravel
Path through my soul
La anima amara
Flowers bloom with music notes
Exploding, opening, distendono
I see me running barefoot
Toes wet & weightless
Laughing or crying
Or both
A drum kicks in
Controlling the breeze of thoughts
That bring time to the garden.
Its where I write
Its where I live, its where I dream
Where I
Am
Going
Have been
Will never get to
Will never leave
Will hold on to forever
Sitting in an antique swing
High above some changing trees
And I remember that it is winter.
I remind myself that there is death in the winter
There will be spring
Rebirth, a resurrection?
But do I believe that when I stare at my reflection that I look through,
Non vedo.

I am like a mosaic
Beautiful broken fragments
collected from here & there
put together to form one
sparkling mess of color, you
may see a clear image from far
but up close you gain
an appreciation for each
cracked piece of glory,
cemented
to
the
wall

Rosso

Giro lo stilo della mia coppa

frammenti della luce di candela

si estendono atraverso il vino

illuminando la punta

delle dita in rosso

sparsi come sussurri di lussuria

colti sulla punto della mia lingua

Spinning the stem of my glass

Fragments of the candlelight

reach through the wine,

Illuminating the tips

of my fingers in red

Scattered Like whispered lust

Caught on my tongue

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
--Elizabeth Bishop

Skeleton poems

Written by ASK, Lorenze, Adriana, Ashley

1.Contentment.

Grey clouds sweep over the Arno

I think this paper will show communication is a comfortable illusion

Material things, like diamond rings,

My stomach is empty but my heart is full

And we never-

You leave me messages in the shape of sounds and

the end is near, we’re getting close…

I am content.

2. Surrender

I’d like to grow old with

You- are the color I see in darkness

Beautiful- thoughts twist and undulate like

Waves- and their silver shade on the shade

And- by bus or train, or even in the

Rain- washes the past, leaving me renewed

Breath, so sweet, I breathe you

Deep, blue of a sunless sea during a

Storm, clouds chase us away

When, suddenly I’m not alone

We, surrender.

3.Desperation

The building that’s facing me is falling

Down

Where I’m stuck

Onyx

In my forehead

Passion

Is magenta colored walls.

I want to sit with you in the light of

The moon

Refracts the light I emanate.

And I’m a desperate

Housewife.