Rome

Beyond The Blue Skies

Beyond the blue skies                     

I may find all the reasons,

so many doubts, so many whys.

There was a time 

I thought I knew...

There was a time 

I thought I knew...

But it was only youth 

exuding from my pores.

Beyond the blue skies

Lie all the answers.

If only I could fly so high.

      

Mother

Downtown

Near the chaos

of a big city

I met a man.

On a narrow street,

forgotten,

like a bloodless vessel 

in the heart of the city

of the hidden angels.

The man with sharp wit

inquisitive mind

blue shirt

surrounded by pigeons

like a renaissance painting, 

sat invisible,

amidst the Asturian architecture.

He pulled a chair,

I quietly sat.

When a man

talks about his son

one should always listen:

my son the musician

my son the artist,

the genius, the soulful,

the embodiment of an ideal;

my daughter 

the producer, the writer,

the unrelenting warrior -

my heart

begins pondering my own story.

You can easily measure 

the stature of a man

when he,

unaware of his own stature,

is busy elevating others.

When you walk away 

from such a man

you can no longer hide

the smallness inside:

I’m filled with tomorrows

haunted by the yesteryears 

unaware of beauty,

beneath my feet,

unnoticed,

a few blocks from my home.

In the past

I hurt for men,

sleeping on the edge of buildings

sometimes

so forgotten by themselves that

they fall short,

and lie

on sidewalks

on the edge of the street.

I hurt for them no more,

and I no longer float on clouds

my generous heart creates.

Today I met a man

who wanted nothing from me,

and as I walked away

I finally embraced 

all the lost souls in the city:

the homeless, the destitute,

prostitutes, thieves, beggars.

They are no longer

the pitiful

the sorrowful,

the forgotten,

they are what they always were:

they are me,

reflected everywhere.

                                              

A Brick...

Alone,

you get to decide

where a brick goes:

you can put it here

you can put it there.

In your hands,

a brick is free

to be anything or nothing.

A poet,

from the baltic sea,

found grandiose desires

in each brick he saw,

and when he parted this life,

he had not a brick to show;

yet his structures

will outlast us all.

If you have

all that you soul desires

you can place a brick

behind your doors,

to prevent someone

from taking your possessions.

I wish

that bricks were free

to be anything it desires,

God,

made it eternal,                                                                                                       

and cursed man with free will 

and infinite crossroads

with no undergrowth

only plenitude.

With so many roads ahead,

man despairs,

and in doubt,

grabs a brick

and set his roots 

here, there,

anywhere:

creates a village, meets a girl

makes other man

to sacrifice for.

Nothing makes a man prouder

than sacrificing for a new generation:

among all the species,

man is the only one

that can exude heroism

while in full retreat.

The bible

talks about man

but it says nothing about bricks:

man was created

at God’s own image;

but man perishes

in a well of uncertainty,

bricks are everywhere:

solid, determined, eternal.

At the end of his life  

every man should have nothing but a brick

to leave behind,

somewhere,

for a child to find.

A Bench

She offered a view:

of a lake, of a sun

centerfold

framed by a tree and foliage,

green with life.

At the forefront, a bench,

which she described

as just a bench.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to save the day,

the moment that got away.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to greet the day

that in each of us awaits.

As if to bless those less blessed,

she offered a frame, a flair, a tree

sunshine, 

dispersing rays of light over me. 

"Just a bench," she said

by the lake with fishes inside

beautiful as a girl carrying a life.

A bench, a beat, another day

in the city of jazz,

or anywhere else you might be at,

a bench is never just a bench,

a bench is a memory of those who sat:

to unseize the day, to contemplate,

to pray, to give thanks, to rest

to hold hands; to mourn the ones who passed.

|  in the memory of Renee |

                                                    

O Life, Where Art Thou?

In the Freedom

of your arms, night,

I find peace -

neverlasting.

Your wishes

stir my soul:

to create, to write,

to rest in peace.

In the warmth

of your embrace,

life is mutable:

filtered into a beauty,

I didn’t know exist.

We are all junkies

of the feelings you provide:

in factories, in narrow streets

scarcely bathed, light,

in the beauty and poetry of a lamp post.

We surrender at your feet;

we forget death; we forget life;

we forget ourselves:

our fears,

our demands, our mights

and we serve you

unconditionally.

“And so

from hour to hour

we ripe and ripe.

And then

from hour to hour

we rot and rot.

And thereby hangs a tale.”

Marco Aurélio and his friend William.

The Muse | a collection of poems |

"There is always a song to be sung,

and I surround the one on the stage:

crowding him, reminding him

to sing, to dance, to pretend...

I like the fearful, 

the devotees...

I smile to them my Mona Lisa smile..." 

| Death speaking - from the poem The Muse |

available on Amazon

Rio de Janeiro - The Working Bees

The city of Rio is awakening,
And it awakens at the suburbs first,
From its edges to within:
Where the working bees live
before they leave to serve;
serve the ones fast asleep.

The sleeping ones,
Sleep tight,
Because in sleep
you mimic and conquer death.

At the noble areas within Rio
one can see the lights
sparkling from the slums
and the ones rising to face living.

I met a man from a noble area
that smoke cigars at 7am
and between puffs told me to wise up:
In Brazil, he told me, there is no art anymore;
it is the law of the jungle
and to make movies here, Gringo, you have to pay.

My native country grew up
and fell in love with the dollar
and in the New Rio-
which is how they named the bus station-
you pay "an arm and a leg" to wash your hands.

I met in Rio
a group of hippies, and adventurers,
and signed them up to make a film
because there are always dreamers around:
searching for meaning, searching for something more
something that stretches farther than the limits of a city,
the color of your skin, of your sexual preferences,
farther than Rio, bigger than a country-a film is-
and its earthbound limits.

A film is a Parasite that festers.

For the man puffing his cigar
nothing is bigger than his Rio
nothing is bigger than the dollar
and the parcel of land he resides
and even the car one drives symbolizes his importance.

I met men like this everywhere:
France, Spain, London
and the United States of America,
where the dollar is made,
where now everyone is also asleep.
Because it is late,
it is always too late for men with cigars...

While they sleep through the night
I covertly plot a film
because sleeping is so goddamn tiresome.

Baganda

Now

I dream of today,

today only

and nothing more...

A whisper -

not a sound -

moving the day

and nothing more...

Half-a-thought

I shall tend to,

gratefully,

regardless of a theory forming.

Deep in my heart,

a strange feeling

pervades,

that nothing more,

is nothing more than now,

a single moment

paradoxically eternal.

                                                                         

The Muse

There is always a song to be sung 

and I surround the one on the stage 

crowding him, reminding him 

to sing, to dance, to pretend...

There is always a road 

not crossed by anyone:

speeding trucks, weaving cars 

blocking the golden fortunes 

that are only found on the other side.

I like the fearful, 

the devotees... 

I smile to them my Mona Lisa smile,

as they beg the Lord: for forgiveness,

for inspiration for clemency;

if he listens, if he cares,

if he inspires, 

itʼs well beyond my care. 

Clemency he has none to give, 

for I am, forever inspiring and certain.

There is always a thing or two

that one can daily do to forget;

and as they do, religiously,

time takes them by the hand

and delivers them all to me.

The soulful,

I take away

in majestic strides, 

as the courageous 

I sit beside, 

as they drive their cars 

hundreds of miles an hour

over a cliff, against a tree.

The uninspired 

I arrive late to collect,

in their forever muted state 

they go peacefully, 

in their sleep. 

There will be people there, 

crying. 

I come, collect them and move on. 

As I walk away with them 

I see a building, 

an unfinished fence, a nice garden 

that reminds me of someone. 

Step by step, in my lead shoes, 

I tip toe on the others: 

the passionate, 

the inspired, 

as they put the final touches 

on their latest creations, 

as they begin their opus.

We walk away together 

and I hear their passionate tales

of their unfinished masterpieces: 

a beautiful painting, 

a beautiful score,

a perfect quilt, 

the first typed pages

of a new novel

that would inspire millions.

A late afternoon, 

an early morning stroll,

is always better 

accompanied by someone 

whose time has run out. 

I watch them 

passionately describing 

how grandiose it would have been: 

they are still focused, 

strangely connected, 

eternally unaware, 

forever dreaming, 

and I am the one destined 

to exist only in their stories, 

and the wondrous promises held 

in their unfinished work.                 

On rare occasions, 

I read over their shoulders 

and find absolute beauty, 

and I wait, teary eyed, 

ignoring the clock, 

until the lead marks the paper 

one final time,

one final note: 

the end.

They see me 

and acquiesce; 

I take them away 

into the night 

quietly, 

I know I should feel betrayed 

but genius is rare indeed 

and mediocrity makes me forgotten.