poems by Gabriella Garofalo

Only a wee wee bit, you loathe life –
It’s me, what else –
See those slender girls sitting on the bridge,
Too close to where they ban light:
The house of power, curtains drawn forever and a day –
Oh, do you chance to love
Days that haunt worse than wildflowers
And stick worse than a mother’s love –
You don’t? Shut your sky then,
They’re shouting for your skin
Those renegades, blue and red
When light lets loose trees go wild
And you feel the absence
Between heaven and tattered nights –
Anyway.
No leaf falls, no tree strikes down,
No muddy green water in the field:
Angels own it, they blind
The mercy of sneaky beasts
If you say yes to the unearthed light:
It limps, it falls, it stops –
Darn you and your bloody wait, soul,
Books, homecoming just sneak out –
As wind drains thoughts,

Maybe eyes.

 

 

 

That summer, when a scorching sun

Tried to play the whistleblower but failed,

Demise was a most welcome guest:

Elderly mothers and young lovers

Crossed the border first,

Those left behind spewed the usual ol’ stuff:

Do vows and prayers work? Shall we bin them,

And empty the dustbin?

Were our words so alike to a faint moan

When a blizzard smites all noises around?

Or were they alike to the castaway’s weary nod

To the frantic surges?

Yes, they couldn’t make their mind up,

But don’t big yourself up, demise, for winning the first hand –

This I can’t deny, yet who are you

But a wandering gambler, one day here, one day there,

All your hours spent stalking this or that prey,

All your nights in some shabby hotel wasting time

With those pals of yours,

Earthquakes, diseases and air crashes,

Once in a blue moon a wrinkled old slut

To quench your thirst –

Ever thought of your life, demise?

You hustler, ever thought you win only through tricks?

Now beware, you’re selling them bit short, aren’t you?

Words are not gambling tricksters,

They don’t cheat and run,

But strike, stay and dare the events –

Only bones and corpses you leave behind,

A rich booty indeed, but they leave behind

The green translucent sap that runs

Through skies, trees, poems and butterflies –

Ever tried to stop them, you dorky loser?

See, the answer is no –

‘Cause sap runs unrelenting, ‘cause words got an abode –

Where they inflexibly stay.

 

 

 

What an easy cop out,
‘I’m sorry’ they say, then wish you good luck,
Why bother with ifs and a blue soul –
Point is you need a sharp sight,
Maybe a blue screen for the blue of abysms –
Fruits lie, beware, winter isn’t green,
So it won’t be your amnion –
The season? Neurasthenia of sky at best,
No use dreaming you’re a distance,
Weaving stories if bodies or nasty whiffs
Ramble through you, worse yet
The moon’s giving words fragments of life,
The red cup, the sky you casually drop, they both chipped now –
Yes, it’s called high treason if you suspect
Light flooding the outskirt of days,
While houses and limbs starve you out –
But don’t fret, one day hunger will stalk herself
Through autumn, distance, old light –
So what? The food’s getting scarcer downtown,
The soul starving while the wind
Keeps her clear of scents and heretical minds –
Yet you indulge in cool dark walls,
In windows along the hallway –
Right where you meet
Seeds that spite and backfire.

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