Tuesday, July 19. 2022: Gabriella Garofalo's poem "Untitled"

Gossake, light, give ‘em some slack,

Let rocks spring, and water see for herself-

While you are at it, my light, go get 

Some nice answers, and throw ‘em ‘round-

Know what? A wannabe Amazon was her mother,

She a dead ashes’ daughter, that girl, yes,

Stranded all over God’s blue land,

Where she madly wishes for blades of light, 

Are they God’s fingers? - 

But blind stares she gets, 

Fallen stars the sky’s eager to bin-

Hey man, hold on! You still falling for those fibs? 

Gosh Blimey, it’s just fake news, 

See, only the nights are real, those tools

Great for the henchmen

Snared in sweet saintly limbs-

Shame they sting worse than crabs,

Shame we get ‘em blessings ‘n’ food-

And where are words in this whole shebang?

Oh, yes, words, Adam and Eve in the garden,

A nice thingie, sure, the magical touches at the end-

Point is, God, I’m afraid you went bit rogue

When giving them limbs and edges-

And see you what’s happening?

Some lost side shambles losing out,

While Medea gets nothing but her bastard heart,

My name, of course, or a dying woman 

Hyped on benny, the nutty lady

The nutty lady who’s gonna get her shot:

Fire or jinx?

Nope, only a demure girl who hides 

Behind too many clouds-

Sometimes your mother, sometimes the moon.

                                     *******

Sure, the dance happens 

When our blue meadows start dashing,

And hurling ‘round dried fields like mad, 

The green our souls kept digging in-

While only crows stand still, 

A murder of crows waiting to be wolfed down, 

Scant spoils, yes, those crows-

God, why don’t you let me 

Throw to heaven

Your desert plains, and infinite waste? 

See, just them, the missing, the lost, 

When in my harsh light they slake

My thirst, my fire, then shine to grim days,

Or motherly limbs

Weaker than the bread they dig in-

Sure you’ll end up starving, my folks,

‘Cause loss yields light from soul to silence

To soul, so please play your desire,

Maybe some prayers- 

Don’t you call them desire?

And yes, blue, percussive, reckless

Summer blows razes your mind-

Look, why do you crash ‘em so young?

Green-eyed for a dispersed time,

The sap flowing through blades of grass,

Or the sour taste of sins?

C’mon, my soul, ambush your light,

Don’t get too close, I know,

It looks so nice,

So blue at wintertime,

The renegade witch who in stabs and bites 

Forwards your birth to heaven-

Drop it if it hustles you to the darkest curtains,

In darkest eyes it will shine, c’mon, now,

No time to waste, those red apples

Look so sweet, right? 

But he shuns them and never reaches the stars,

Might get ‘em wrong, you know,

As, I kid you not, they’re not stars,

Only obsessions gorging on your mind-

And you beware, kiddos and dahling mums,

No fuss, no muss, see that scrawny lady?

She’s sipping her Coke, so comfy in her deck-chair-

Maybe the eternity. 

And maybe she asks’ Why didn’t you morph

Into a yellow flame? ‘

Yes, that silent light, the keeper of my soul-

Nature inside, I beyond any climax,

And many summers of my drowning mother, 

My Caliban-

While I shaking all over,

My Light.

© 2022 Gabriella Garafolo

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of Lo sguardo di Orfeo; L’inverno di vetro; Di altre stelle polari; Casa di erba, ;Blue Branches, and A Blue Soul.