Sestina. Query

lucio scalia OCTOBER

I can’t solve the tangent of circles in heartbeats –
the pink fog of dusk and circles in bloodstone
lines perpendicular in the same core
our breaths in matrix of age, naked for rain.
We are surrendering one earth and sky
like one day and night, like cathedral and bells.

When I said “Yes” I meant a vow of church bells,
understood of nothing, but faith in heartbeats
no conditions, no gain, but faith in the sky.
Of God’s favor, etched in diamond and bloodstone,
“Is it easy to forget the mist after rain?”
I’m absorbed in canticles of the world’s core.

I want to touch you, soothe, brimming the core,
ravish you, when night comes of quiet bells.
When dawn flaunts with halos, lavish you in rain!
Love seeks you. My heart rhymes your heartbeats,
on the battlefield regenerates a bloodstone –
you, forever pure, in reverence to sky.

You are beautiful. When your cup begs the sky,
your bone ascends where water is born to core,
into silence, a solstice mark of bloodstone,
your smile, a radiance of hope, the Lord’s peace bells!
Shall I compare thy breath to angel heartbeats?
Shall I compare thy breath to kind fresh rain?

We have come. There is no fear in love and rain,
no barriers of time, even pain, raised to sky.
There’s no fence, no death, only truth in heartbeats,
nothing impenetrable, clean mist in the core.
Weariness fades and full of zeal, swing the bells!
Drought is passing, engulfed in fiery bloodstone.

Let’s renew roots and manna dew in bloodstone,
let glow of halos and shapes in healing rain
burn lies and peril in holy temple bells
bring hope to heart drunk in pain, beg the sky!
So sweet, but moments drift like beads to core
yet, always there, a pathway to happy heartbeats.

It is labor of bloodstone that shaped heartbeats.
The baptism of rain sluice down a fogbow core?
Do bells mend hearts? God spreads his wings in the sky.

/rosevoc. 10182017
photography,lucio scalia,rcj


There Is No Fear In Love

There Is No Fear In Love

When I first realized that I loved you
I became afraid, for I felt exposed,
surrounded by the broken-down fences
I had painstakingly built as protection
for my fragile emotions and great fears
against a cold and indifferent world.

Suddenly, without warning, my safe world
was changed as I gave free entry to you
into my heart, and in spite of my fears,
I willingly my complete being exposed –
seeking the nestling warmth and protection
and the safety of love’s strong fences.

I found that love was not caged, and fences
were not needed to live in its blissful world,
where affection was its own protection
and the sharing of life’s journey with you
could allow unknown joys to be exposed
and assurances could replace past fears.

As our love grew and flowered, and past fears
were eroded with abandoned fences
I became strong, despite being exposed
to the changes of an evolving world.
I felt secure and contented with you –
In your loving care I found protection.

And through the years, love’s certain protection
has shielded us against life’s storms and fears
And as I have walked at the side of you
I found a paradise, without fences,
where we have built our own beautiful world,
filled with love, and our joy could be exposed.

Now we have grown old and by age exposed
our bodies frail, each limb needs protection.
As we move slowly in a twilight world
and confront diverse and alarming fears
I seek strength in my memory’s fences
recalling joyous times and days with you.

A soul exposed to true love knows no fears.
The protection of your love’s strong fences
secure my world – I will always love you.

© David De La Croes 2017 . All Rights Reserved.

Paysage Moralise by W.H. Auden

Paysage Moralisé
by W. H. Auden

Hearing of harvests rotting in the valleys,
Seeing at end of street the barren mountains,
Round corners coming suddenly on water,
Knowing them shipwrecked who were launched for islands,
We honour founders of these starving cities
Whose honour is the image of our sorrow,

Which cannot see its likeness in their sorrow
That brought them desperate to the brink of valleys;
Dreaming of evening walks through learned cities
They reined their violent horses on the mountains,
Those fields like ships to castaways on islands,
Visions of green to them who craved for water.

They built by rivers and at night the water
Running past windows comforted their sorrow;
Each in his little bed conceived of islands
Where every day was dancing in the valleys
And all the green trees blossomed on the mountains,
Where love was innocent, being far from cities.

But dawn came back and they were still in cities;
No marvellous creature rose up from the water;
There was still gold and silver in the mountains
But hunger was a more immediate sorrow,
Although to moping villagers in valleys
Some waving pilgrims were describing islands …

‘The gods,’ they promised, ‘visit us from islands,
Are stalking, head-up, lovely, through our cities;
Now is the time to leave your wretched valleys
And sail with them across the lime-green water,
Sitting at their white sides, forget your sorrow,
The shadow cast across your lives by mountains.’

So many, doubtful, perished in the mountains,
Climbing up crags to get a view of islands,
So many, fearful, took with them their sorrow
Which stayed them when they reached unhappy cities,
So many, careless, dived and drowned in water,
So many, wretched, would not leave their valleys.

It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Then water
Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys,
And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands.



September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

By Elizabeth Bishop