Everyday Stories #23

When we look for something, we are building it

Photo by Karsten Würth on Unsplash

Part I

Let me take you by the hand.
You and I come from different cities.
We decided together:
What we call a city
is really nothing more than the heterogeneous whole of our vicissitudes.
My city is a linen shirt,
a wolf tamed by the fear of being alone.
Yours is a wedding, a thinking jasmine.

Let me take you by the hand.
You and I come from different cities.
And now we are here.
We walk slowly. We linger.

Venice, you know, is not a single city.
There are at least two of them. …

Haiku of Pitch #2

What a Pitch is required to do

Drawing by Author

Looking into the well
Every reflection rests
In waiting there is no haste

The time of a Pitch
is in circles of water, rings of a trunk, resonances.
In the beginning
it is in the indefinite and central point
and in that point there is a well.

Legend has it that the Emperor had conquered the entire Earth.

His were the blades of grass,
his were the glaciers and the castles of the termites.
Each windmill fanned its name.
Children were forced to memorize his horrible poems.

The Emperor was not evil but power breeds special diseases and the Emperor’s…

Everyday Stories #22

I filled out the notebook

Photo by Author

The joy of writing is a joy.
Walking is a joy, too.
And hold hands, yet another.

The silence the dawn the flight of the ducks the transparency of the water.

I bought a notebook at the corner stationery store.
I linger in front of the window.
Every time.
It has red frames.

On the glass I have learned to recognize the reflections of those who are no longer there.
Of those who have passed before me.
And the clouds flow across the sky, a black and white film.
Behind my back.

I filled out the notebook of a precious…

Everyday stories #21

Jesus dismounted from the donkey

Photo by Author

Jesus entered Jerusalem.

A Jerusalem in quarantine.
Saddened. Compromised. Waiting.

Only the soldiers on the street
and some woman, wrapped in veils,
and scattered beggars.

The animals,
happy,
they became familiar with freedom
improvised.

Jesus dismounted from the donkey,
sat down
in the middle of the square.

Jesus dialogued with silence,
as he did in the desert
or in the evening, alone on the shores of the lake.

He had healed many sick people,
he had not come to eradicate diseases.

He had shown the way,
he hadn’t forced anyone to follow it.

A child approached, handed him an olive…

Everyday Stories #19

Even the wind

Photo by Brandon Jaramillo on Unsplash

Many will read your hand,
even the wind.
And they will ask why a seashell
resting there
to break the line
straight and fast
of life.

To stumble. You’ll say.
Forgetting an appointment. To apologize.

To wear out love.
Going back to the first kiss.
It’s so amazing,
each time,
having to sharpen the pencil.

A seashell is but a perfect structure of silence and voice.

You realize?
Over there, beyond the palm that you caress, is the blue.

A vastness without boundaries.
On a human scale.

Molti leggeranno la tua mano, persino il vento. E chiederanno perché una conchiglia…

Haiku of Pitch #1

Where does a Pitch come from

Drawing by Author

Silence
Someone opens their eyes
The moon noticed it

To date we don’t know if Pitch
really exist.

Some scientists claim that Pitch
are generated by the ripples of gravitational waves.
Doctors, perhaps joking, perhaps seriously, say that Pitch
are born from sneezing.
Poets, of course, are certain that Pitch
come from the moon.

I want to believe an old lady,
dressed in fall and spring, met years ago in a park,
who told me about the Pitch
that arise from children’s tears.

She was an elementary school teacher.

At the beginning of a school year, there was a child…

Everyday Stories #20

Un’altra Primavera rubata

Primavera by Sandro Botticelli, Uffizi Gallery in Florence (Wikipedia Commons)

The wall is blank.
A slight sense of nausea. Maybe the three croissants gobbled up too quickly.
Somewhere in the world, someone is playing a cello. Bach.
The custodian of the Uffizi holds a cloth handkerchief in his pocket
and a wallpaper-like sadness hidden behind his mustache.

They stole it, then.
Primavera.
The Three Graces have been missing for a few days now.
Zephyr. A wind in a cardboard box.
Flora. Lawyer for a large construction company.

Mercury’s fault, thinks the museum custodian.
Mercury is always so distracted, always so clever.

The soil, patient, does not protest. Returns to its…

The Havanun Tales #24

Dreams have scents, thoughts also

Photo by Chewy on Unsplash

Brutus large dog
indefinite prehistoric breed almost certainly
divine

Born of coal of the starry sky and son
of a train lightning son of sweetness

Brutus has three legs the fourth invisible silver one
touched by the moon
rolled
down from the hills in August to play in sunflower fields

Shade of willows torpor green ray murmur
Brutus
shepherd dog of dreams
wakes up
in the evening first glow wags his tail
map of alleys flowerbeds arpeggiated gait

They have remedies. They have remedies for almost everything, the people of Havanun. For insomnia and bad dreams. Sleeping next to someone…

Literary Impulse & Paper Poetry “Eudaimonia” Prompt Submission

An unauthorized biography

Photo by Rafael Cisneros Méndez on Unsplash

My voice is a gray albatross.
I healed her wings.
Now, I can’t hold her anymore.
(from the diary of Eudaimonia)

Eudaimonia is born in Donoussa on December 21st at 2.45 am.

Two extraordinary events occur on the same night.

The first, it’s snowing.
Flakes as big as white and soft loaves
which disappear
the following morning, in a sparkle of myriads of diamonds,
leaving the few inhabitants of the island
with the alienating impression of having only dreamed.

The second, Eudaimonia, curled up in the towel,
does not look like a baby,
but of a tender, curious, stubborn goat.

Everyday Stories #18

It won’t be tomorrow

Photo by Simeon Muller on Unsplash

If I ever die,
it won’t be tomorrow.

I will be very old, wise and still beautiful.
It will be during an outdoor party,
and people will murmur:
maybe he didn’t have to dance.

Those who love me will carry me in their arms,
they will rest me
sitting with my back against a tree,
one of those trees that are so beautiful
and have never harmed anyone.

My soul,
so amazed, every day,
to be able to see itself in the mirror
and to resist
in such a concrete world,
will move away from the scene a little. …

Jonah Lightwhale

I try to tell short stories from the unexpected land where I paused jonahlightwhale@gmail.com

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