Everyday Stories #24

Sometimes memories are able to…

Photo by Yaopey Yong on Unsplash

We were seven children
each seven years old
Our teeth gleamed in the moonlight
Sharp and newborn and white
able to chew the toughest candy

Our bikes were built with interstellar material
All the roads
were downhill and wide as electric guitars
in the summer night
And shivers down our spines
made the cornfields sway

I would fall I would get up My father poured a red liquid on the wounds It burned and smelled of a stormy sea My mother sewed colorful patches on torn overalls The wounds The wounds were used to healing on their own I didn’t…


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 like a tender, curious, stubborn goat.


The Havanun Tales #25

Where words do not reach

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Dorothy’s Prayer

Grant, O Great Spirit, that my sadness may not last
until sunset.

Let the fire of the world be as docile
as that of the fireplace.
Make me like the universe
that never wasted a drop of water.

Remind me of white hair, of eternity, of the scent of cookies.
Remind me of need.
Remind me, when I wash the dishes, to ask James to pull up my sweater sleeves.
Remind me of his satisfied smile.

And let this be, every time, O Great Spirit,
the beginning of my faith.

Fa, o Grande Spirito, che la mia tristezza…


The Havanun Tales #26

Where words do not reach

Photo by Joyce McCown on Unsplash

Conor’s prayer

You are the Shadow of the world, the empty atrium of the heart.
The bottom of the glass.

To you, who are the Dark One, I will lend my white coat.

Observe how we are made, sit by our beds.
Regulate the flow of IVs, cut our flesh, heal our wounds.

Add relief to breath.
Add hope to time.

Sometimes, on the night shift, I open the windows.
The stars flicker with gratitude.

Tu sei l’Ombra del mondo, l’atrio vuoto del cuore. Il fondo del bicchiere. A te, che sei l’Oscuro, darò in prestito il mio camice bianco…


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…


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 #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 #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…

Jonah Lightwhale

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

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