By Alchera
Yesterday I had
the bud of hope
the fruit of life
the joy of happiness
the warm worth of wealth.
Today I have got
the eyes of poverty
the ice of terror
the vulture of corruption
the damned birth of death.
By Alchera
For Laura (An acrostic)
Enjoy the silence when you are alone
No one will ever hear your melodies
Joyfully as yourself because unheard
Over far-off lands where music plays
Yielding mysteriously from underground,
Tossing their tunes outbreaking sweetness
Hailing, thundering, lightening output sounds
Edging romantically limits where you
Solitary sweetheart sleep alone now,
Inside me as I walk through my desert:
Lands of turmoils and craziness here:
Essence life love of my older days.
No one knows your longed sufferings
Chasing her torn up illness as she died
Embraced nest among my sleeping arms.
By Alchera
solitary snow
lies Mother Earth's flakes - feed food:
wilderness manna
By Alchera
Life
Is
a breath of air
in
a morning sunshine beam
with a friendly
s
i
p
p
i
n
g
Naepolitan cappuccino.
By Alchera
Why do you suffer
mean-spirited naughty child
in your mother's arms?
By Alchera
Lovers tightly greet with a kiss
for the last time before diving
into the lost crowd of the tube
like hypogeous rats in their tombs.
By Alchera
Life's running course
goes by
as we all try
to stop it
F
O
O
L
I
S
H
L
Y
without success,
CRYING
YELLING
at our own
womb's written destiny.
All the rotten wormy words
are hive - hidden
D
E
E
P
L
Y
in the abyss
of our great
Mother Earth
without pity.
Our infernal
human conditions
are miserable
and tie us up
to our last
tread of life.
By Alchera
My womb's winding wind
blows tonight
at my wooden door.
S
L
O
W
L
Y
it becomes
crystallized.
The undressed trees
leave
their sinful suffering clothes
to our begging
Great Mother Earth.
The sleeping wilderness
will never awake again.
Chained mad men's frozen cries
D
R
O
P
.
| Author Notes | Looking at A Wolf'n Chill by swcarhaulr this poem popped out. |
By Alchera
Life has lost
its savoured tastes,
it suffers its bliss...
A savour of Solitude
reigns here in this
well-craft-crowned picture.
"Bare" like barren unknown lands
is the "unique" adjective
carved-written as a crown.
...Death comes along in every season
as the Lady of the Shadow is
at the end-stage of life
as Summer goes by...
...and there? Recipes?
What is the sense
of preparing
good tasty
homemade recipes for?
A dolorous
slight savoured solitude
reigns in this
well-handcrafted picture.
What is the sense
of preparing
tasty,
beloved
homemade recipes for...
...if he has left her
behind?
By Alchera
rotten rats rush down
towns over logs bogs bridges:
all food infections
By Alchera
Woman
A bloody fired woman in red.
A poor stony palace.
The three symbols of Trinity.
Femme fatal.
Wild weird woman.
Young yelling forest roots.
Man
Loafy sleeping fool.
Sexy black body.
A romantic wild wolf.
A handsome generous gentleman.
A strange solitary character.
By Alchera
Phainómena
| Author Notes | Phaiṇmena is not a poem but the Greek title of the second section of the book. Please, do not review! |
By Alchera
Unforgettable Memories
| Author Notes | Unforgettable Memories is the last section of the book. It is not a poem. Please, do not review it! |
By Alchera
| Author Notes | Rain of wandering souls is the title of the third section of the book. It is not a poem. Please do not review it! |
By Alchera
Mr Hyde had the hide
to hide his hide at night-time:
Dr. Jekyll by day.
By Alchera
| Author Note: | To Rose's Granny |
There are two things to worry about in our life:
to be well or to be sick.
If you are well
there is nothing to worry about.
If you are sick
there are two things to worry about:
to get well again or to die.
If you get well again
there is nothing to worry about.
If you die
there are two things to worry about:
to go to Heaven or to Hell.
If you go to Heaven
there is nothing to worry about.
If you go to Hell:
you will be damned busy
shaking hands with all your friends.
THEN
YOU
WILL HAVE
NO TIME
TO WORRY!
| Author Notes | This poem was narrated in Neapolitan by Rosa Annunziata, one of my students at the Liceo Classico Sperimentale Brocca in Sarno, (Italy), in the second class C while another student wrote it in Neapolitan. After we examined it and I translated it into English and published it on the "International Society of Poets" site, and later I published it on "AllPoetry" and "Fanstory, com". While I was looking for a souvenir in Dublin I find my poem on a target and later after some years being in Malta, on a School Stage, I found it on a kitchen rag. I asked the street vendor how long it had been on sale and he replied that for twenty years. I wonder: where are my copyrights? I when on researching and I found the same poem in Germany used by a sort of clairvoyant. So I changed my rights in registrated poem. |
By Alchera
| Author Note: | To Virginia |
Today my soul
squeaks sorrowfully
it cracks and clutches
its worn out roots
breathless
squashed to the ground
by this modern world's emptiness.
AMONG THESE DOLOROUS CROWS
ALONE I AM !
Today my soul
slips slimly
it creeps and crawls
its out rooted smile
harmless
deep-scarfed to the bone
by the surrounding friends' own perfidiousness
AMID THIS DOLOROUS DUST-BIN RUBBISH
I AM ALONE!
By Alchera
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Every day it's always the same story: she gets up at seven in the morning, she has the same coffee, she is always late and in a hurry. But she has always time for her insects. Daisy is an entomologist and a biologist in a laboratory in Malabar, at Lord Howe Island. Her mother is the director of the Malabar's botanic garden.
Since her girlhood, Daisy had been fascinated by the flying insects over the plants in the garden.
She is a good - looking young woman. She is thin and tall. She is mulatto, her mother is Tunisian and her father is English, but she lives at Lord Howe Island. She has got medium length wavy black hair, a turned-up nose, and fleshy lips. Her eyes are light blue as the sky in springtime and so bewitched and sensual. She dresses well and is careful in the least particular. She usually goes around with a little document case. People say that she hides something special, a sensational discovery that she won't reveal to the world.
Daisy lives in a very big house, surrounded by a wonderful garden, full of every species of plants. She has a two-story house: on the first floor, there is the kitchen (very untidy!) and the living room. On the second floor, there are bedrooms, two bathrooms, and her office. On the walls there are a lot of pictures: they logically represent flowers, insects and plants. But one of these is empty. It is different from the others, the picture is bigger, it seems that it is waiting for something special. In a specific side of her house, Daisy has prepared some little glass cages. Here the light is suffused, almost turned off. Hung at each cage there is a sort of medical record where there are reported all the characteristics of the animal and its fate. In the cages, a little spotlight lights up the "unlucky" and a television camera records all its movements. On the right of the room, there are a microscope and some implements that Daisy uses for the insects' dissection. It is her hobby! Some more are in a hidden room, at the end of the house. Suddenly the telephone rings. Daisy thinks: "It will be the same person who phones me because I'm late". But the telephone is still ringing. Grumbling she answers the phone.
- Hello.
- Hello, this is Mark, from the laboratory.
- Yes, I know. I'm late. I'm coming immediately.
- Daisy, you must come. There is news about researches.
By Alchera
Looking up in the silent sky
white soft stars are falling down
with lavender in your bed
you are dreaming in your nightgown
while sweet dreams run through your head.
By Alchera
By Alchera
| Author Note: | To Valeria |
Young
nocturnal
beauty
blooming
like shining stars
immensely
in the darkness:
penetrating arrows
to scratch:
life's fervor transformer
trembling tremor
of burning autumnal leaves.
By Alchera
| Author Note: | My Italian Poetry |
Brucio dentro
come un cratere.
Il magma
della mia anima errante
scende a valle
trascinato dall'ira:
devasta lentamente
instancabile distrugge:
furia cieca
di atomo infinito.
By Alchera
| Author Note: | To Sheol |
Lace of laconic larks
Oracle of weak wizards
Nephew of "Ancient Splendour"
Dangles in the night
Owns once more the thread of the world
Nowhere imprisonment could be so sweet.
By Alchera
It was lunch time. Students were everywhere! I was really hungry! I queued up at "Buon Appetito", a Neapolitan home made pizzeria, waiting for my turn to come. Here you can buy any kind of pizzas, home made pasta, a very tasty eight hour boiled ragù, but most of young people prefer the world wide pizza Margherita and end their lunch with a nice Neapolitan babà and a good Amalphian liquor called limoncello which is made by the particular lemons grown along the Amalphian coast. It's delicious if you get cream of limoncello.
At last I entered the pizzeria and was lucky to succeed in getting a seat which is very hard to in such place, so most people prefer eating outside quickly folding their pizza together.
As I was sitting and waitng at my table I scribbled these two texts on two white napkins: here's what I wrote and felt!
Buon appetito!
Hungry
pale faces
look around.
Hot-oven
baked pizzas
f l y
from a table
to another.
Swiftly
the servant
rushes by.
Customers
w
a
i
t
impatiently.
Newcomers ask for a seat.
Smelling
warm cooked
perfumed stewed:
with fresh peeled tomatoes
garlic and marjoram
reach my nostrils
while I'm waiting
-there-
my turn.
What a divine honey-sea-cut-sight!
What a sweet-smelling fragrance of earthly beloved!
Now
I can smell
the nearby
salt-sea water
and enjoy
Mt. Vesuvius
where
this
delicate
amiable
wine
grows
as I cut
and taste
heartily
my Neapolitan pizza's fragrances
of this beloved
paradisiacal land
of mine.
I had just finished eating my pizza and now I was waiting for my babà and cream limoncello when this other text popped out:
Ripe Limoncello -
Yet
I am
a man
true-blue.
Everything
still bleeds wild
green in me.
It
burns me
thoroughly out.
I
am moody red
flown off the handle
about it all.
People say:
"Don't care!
Take it easy! "
Then - they flee
in disorder.
Still
I bleed
over the thorns of life
foolishly wild
red and green
and purple.
Now
scattered all over here
the things are blue
overcrowded in my blues.
Here I am,
all alone, again as
I go on standing here, alone
with my 'dear limoncello'.
95º Alcohol:
1.5 spirits.
Sugar:
1.5 bright white grains.
Yellow Amalphian lemons:
12 semi-ripe ones.
I
peel their skin off
yellow and thin
as they
s
l
o
w
l
y
drop
one
by
one,
all drunk,
shipwrecked,
in the Sea of the Holy Ghost.
They cryptically swim and cry,
around and around,
along the blooming glass banks like
spirit-rappers' choke-peared wrath.
One week prison,
mine - eight months,
a cooled-down whirl
in a sugared hot water pot.
Everything is mixed up,
filtrated
and air-tight
bottled kept.
Winter
gave its birth
Spring
will smell
its lemon essence!
What do I care now
if I won't be there,
while the cobwebbed cornered spider
is still weaving,
wrapped,
in its cruel webby symmetry
at sunset?
How do you think I felt after that? ...and what about you?
Are you hungry by now?
Would you like to try a sweet delirium babà with rum and a cream limoncello, too? Cheers!
By Alchera
Unpalatable
snared animal's hide peeled off
turned inside out -- tanned.
Found hung racked grey wolf
at downtown used clothing store:
What wolf's sold soft soul!
By Alchera
New Year's longed wish comes
hundreds of hid-haunted hopes:
lost lived fallen bombs.
By Alchera
Here I am
all alone
with my thinking thoughts
all alone
behind these rusty red rain-clouds.
Here I am
with my white sorrowful soul
like an old doggy dogcart
all broken
behind this worn out corner history.
Here I am
with my pains
like this autumnal old song
all naked
behind this sleeping silent dawn.
By Alchera
On a rainy day we met
at Botany Bay all wet.
O fifer,fifer, play your fife
for I'm changed and you are all my life.
Now I'm like the silver moon
among the billing loopy loon
and the loony coon
when it shines in the pool
and hides amid the hilly cool
shining rocks of Niagara Falls
tearing apart as a raindrop falls
while with you dear, I get all.
Now my life has fallen apart
and has not gotten a part
in your flamed wooden hearth
since you have beaten me on earth
and imprisoned the blood-floor of my heart.
By Alchera
| Author Note: | For all the dead soldiers there! |
Wounded Beirut lies,
twinkling, thoughtless tourists drive:
worm-rotten minds' sores
| Author Notes | Please do not review this senryu if you have not seen the winning World Press Photo 2006! |
By Alchera
Crushing crowds
of flooding blue bubbles
like damned souls slowly come along
one by one towards the gutter's falls:
hellish human sins storm them through
as they swirl along, twinning, twisting around,
spinning up, hair survey float, rolling over,
downwards flocking into silky webbed foam.
Turning over and over, and again into
the abyssal-infernal abuse of human waste.
Here Mother Earth fertilisers and stocks piles
of her future wastes of her demon-ill polluted generations.
Which mother's rotten womb has generated
such mistrustful brotherhood?
Which beach could have fed differently
so much her sucking puppies?
Culture destroys the sensible minds
where ignorance reigns undisturbed.
Oh Christ! What have I done
to merit such dolorous wrath?
On which shoulder should I drop
my fear in tears of incessant daily pain?
Where have honesty, honour
and family's life gone?
Brothers' wastes gloatingly lie on
their stomach in the gutters
where envy will find out, and bring
a hornets' nest about their ears
as father dies, they find out
how the land lies as they lie
through their teeth
to their old decaying Mother
while Europe and Helen
are still, too far, away!
By Alchera
Infinity
is
a glorious glance,
an egg-boiling emotion,
a crying smile,
a unwritten word ...
a fearful tearing teardrop...
Infinity
is
the wild smell
of
a damp morning,
the last, deep,
red,golden glow
at the setting sun.
Infinity
is
life lived dream
drop by
drop,
moment by
moment.
It is
an eternal
and fleeting
moment ...
suspended
between the Earth
and the Sky.
Infinity
is
everything
and nothing...
Infinity
is
a shed tearing tear,
a howling cry ,
a sorrowful, suffering pain.
Infinity and death
advancing silently
with their dark mantle:
the ashes scattered in the river
on a sad dolorous windy day.
It is a broken dreadly dream,
a wailing wrong choice,
a bad ruined remorse,
a red regret ...
I walk in your unforgettable image,
I stop and wait for you,
I sigh dolorously,
I listen to myself, alone,
then the fog covers my falling steps
and envelops me tightly,
erasing my lost, fat footprints,
confusing them among
a thousands of others,
and that inhuman white
obscures
my minded mind:
What are we in the face of time?
What are we compared to an infinite abstract?
Nothing, we might think! ...Only a grain of sand.
Aren't we instead constantly adrift fragments
of what we call "eternity"?
Aren't we the beating heart
that keeps the world going?
|
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