The Havanun Tales #24

Dreams have scents, thoughts also

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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

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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

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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. …

Everyday Stories #15

A vision in an evening shipwreck

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Photo by Andrej Nihil on Unsplash

I walk home
my soul in the shopping bag
it rains
it grow dark

Writings on the walls compose
a single long
melancholic
phrase

I would like to meet someone

Under the rain
we would stop and talk
until the rain
do not wash away
the toils of the day

A square coffee table
in the middle of the sidewalk
pizza and beer and forgetting
future worries silly worries

But here it is a shipwreck

People cling to the neon signs
to car bumpers
to memories

I have no rope
to pull them to safety
or to take me to…

The Havanun Tales #23

Song of war and salvation

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Photo by Ryunosuke Kikuno on Unsplash

So we found Aaron
as if asleep, in front of the abandoned station

With his bicycle
his discreet wonder
with his song

All boundaries roll away like tumbleweeds
around whoever stands still
immovable
like a river
like wind, time, elusive thought

An exhausted horse
a statue abandoned to pigeons
This I am
Gait of a boxer the following morning
in the mouth the clotted blood

But I can crow, if you like
I can charge through the walls
I can provide
simple words of joy

If you see me so slovenly if my mind and my smile seem to wander…

Everyday Stories #16

And love cannot rest

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Photo by Ehud Neuhaus on Unsplash

This is not a story, it is not a presumption of a poem.
This is a gift I give to myself.

It’s been two days
that, as soon as I can, I go back to video below.

A Diosa, better known as
No potho reposare
is a song written in 1920
and has become part of the Sardinian culture and popular tradition.

Below I report the original lyrics, in Sardinian language,
the lyrics in Italian,
and a translation, as always improvised, into English.
But the words here perhaps take a back seat.

It could be the hidden old age, it…

Everyday Stories #14

The golden thread

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Photo by Sven Brandsma on Unsplash

There was a time before time.
A time where gods, animals, trees and streams
they intertwined their stories.
And there was still no word
for human being.

Clotho the spinner, Lachesis the allotter, Atropos the unturnable.

Each thread passed between their hands.
The thread of day and night, of wakefulness and sleep.
The thread of emotions that follow each other.
Even the life of the immortal gods was not an infinite thread
but the beginning, the unfolding and the end of infinite threads,
of infinite lives.

Clotho spun, Lachesis wove, Atropos cut.

Clotho, the youngest, fell in love with Vorfreude…

Everyday Stories #13

Treat her with care

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Photo by Louis Reed on Unsplash

Wanders in blank wanders
a lonely weeny spaceship
Not by her choice
she likes to be in company

Wanders in blank wanders
a lonely weeny spaceship
Smells the cosmic air
a fox cub
the mother spaceship
has lost her

Be careful

She is not just any spaceship
Inside
she is full of bonsai
and poems

She doesn’t need
to be commanded
she has antique
and shiny keys
Like a bandoneon

And follows the conductor
of this portion of the galaxy
Rubs on the rim of a glass
Concert of crickets and cicadas

Lonely weeny spaceship heart of fire built with…

Everyday Stories #12

Tribute to Fabrizio De Andrè

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Photo by Ryan Pizzo on Unsplash

Fabrizio De Andrè
18 February 1940, 11 January 1999

This is just a tribute
to a songwriter
that has accompanied me since I was a child
on anniversary of his death.

I will not tell his life,
elsewhere
there are already more or less wonderful articles.

Please note, quotes of De Andrè are enclosed in quotes.
You will forgive me the improvised translations.

Just a personal anecdote.

After a two hour concert,
I got in line for the autograph.
When we met,
I asked him what he thought of mystical anarchy.

I was sixteen, I lived in an orderly way…

The Havanun Tales #22

Rite of passage

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Photo by Zeke Tucker on Unsplash

I climbed a hill.

Havanun
it should be a million long yearstrides away
from the places where I spent my childhood.
But yet,
arrived at the top,
the hill was the same friendhill
when I was a child.

Wild rosemary bushes.
The scent gets rid of Earth’s gravity.

There was the same centenarian grandmotheroak,
its roots like veins
on the back of the hands of an old carpenter.
There was the same centeroftheworldstone,
smooth,
covered with moss,
where I sat for hours.

And down there, that headinthecloudssheep left behind that day, I whistled to warn the pastor. And the purple…

Jonah Lightwhale

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

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