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Poetry

The Ascent

The Ascent

I bathe at the well of living water, dipping the pen in ink of tears, words, as crumbs, come up from the well of feelings and lips are parting to the bread of your love. The eyes open to the world, following your light and hands resting on the chest in prayer. I feel the pink of the cherry tree…

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Retrogram

Retrogram                to J. Michael Yates What was all that organized chaos but an intelligent storm, words, marching down the page like a biological imperative, and the bright mischief, the challenge when you pushed buttons, edges, grammar, thought, your mind a keen wind, brisk but not blustery, from the north, all day.  We talked…

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24 Hours

Through cobbled streets, old historic houses      returning scents of flavoured bread and oil; men in ties graced by the steps of spouses,      visages wed to art modes, trades, and toil… A rest at Federici, to savour      some dolci, the namesake folks home-labour and, prey to native sights smeared in fancy,      for just a moment wished I quit it there— vanished with…

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The Grape Harvest

Strolling on a lazy afternoon I passed the local grape-crushing site My senses felt the smell as an invite I couldn’t resist the call and went inside To pass the time with old familiar sights, But I saw none; The vats, the press, grape skins littering the paths, Bare-footed boys and shirtless men, They were all gone. Their shapes soon…

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Food tv fantasia

Each morning espresso or cappuccino at historic chic cafe’s in rome, milan, venice and florence Under a rising Mediterranean sun At noon Ligurian olives, kissed with extra virgin oil Prosciutto di parma Pasta made by milanese hands Tuscan wine in murano goblets Bocconcini di bufala and basilico Al fresco beneath a Mediterranean mezzogiorno Vistas of dream cities in background Evenings…

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Salvatore Ala, Poet of Clarity

Salvatore Ala, Poet of Clarity

“They are poems of integrity and clarity, and many of them possess a startling beauty,” writes Canadian author Alistair MacLeod on the back cover of Salvatore Ala’s first book of poems, Clay of the Maker (1998). Since I first heard Salvatore Ala read his poetry, some fifteen years ago at a literary event in Sarnia, Ontario, I’ve been drawn to his writing,…

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nessun dorma, camp petawawa, 1940

“My head was still resonant with song. . .” Mario Duliani they sent hundreds of italian men to petawawa. to sit out the war just in case they tried to start a revolution. just in case they turned the whole place upside down. they sang on the train going up sang in corners of the camp like shy birds blew…

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Fingerprints

A rough, work-worn wind beat the air when my grandfather spoke sturdy fingers contouring his sons and daughters, blunting their days. He liked to play life close to the chest, his heavy-handed love stroked his wife into a fine, carved chair. Calloused palms landed on his daughter trying out her legs—each time she budged, strained her neck or let songs…

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As I Watch My Father Fading

As I Watch My Father Fading As I watch my father fading I realize we begin our lives With nothing but love And end our lives the same way.   From Random Thoughts: Poetry and Prose Sketches (2010)

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Cattivo Ragazzino

Mid-afternoon rays fell through the bay window’s lace curtain veil to rest warmly on the insides of my soft little thighs as I sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor of the spacious dining room where mama held her appointments, took measurements and did fittings for well-to-do women, each determined to be the first in her circle to sport the next…

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In Search of Divine Connection

In Search of Divine Connection

In The Honeymoon Wilderness (Mansfield, 2002), Pier Giorgio Di Cicco writes the kind of poetry that traces the cartography of the ordinary acts of living and how they make contact with our existential questions and the soul's longings. Di Cicco's voice attains a dazzling level of lyrical and spiritual power in this book of new poems, since he broke his publishing silence…

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The Light and Sky in Winnipeg

This sunlight belongs in a Mediterranean harbour or outside the shade of a small orange grove above the sea on a steep limestone cliff in the middle of the village square around 4:00 when the tables outside the caffè hug the walls and its low pale shadow. Here is August morning light and red crabapples dot a green tree like…

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After September 11, 2001

It's winter already - locked doors and windows keep out the cold the warm days of laughter and song will never come back - people freezing in the streets don't think of them anymore: dream that disappears at waking when one cuddles in search of warmth on trees naked crows croak I (like others) keep the fire going Translated from…

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