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.

Friday, April 29, 2022: Gabriella Garafalo's poem "Untitled"

Out of a pesky arthrosis time is forced

To stand still, he is bedridden so can’t dash

To centuries and millennia, to wolf them down-

The soul is gently soothing him, with those platitudes

Eerily akin to a generous dollop of salt on infected wounds-

Soul, don’t waste your time with him, better for you

To look for a light blue sky, where light stands as a survivor

Along with lighter colors, maybe blue, maybe desire-

And she suddenly raids him, touches his lips, a biting cold

Breaths life to your winter, but, oh, those hands, them

And primary colours, such a bore-

Never complain, never explain, just remove them quickly,

No good for you to end up like her

For a cheap sunset, too much sorrow, and hot tears,

What’s the bloody point?

Listen, be wise, grab a reliable night, a pocket gift,

Don't you know the roots of your being are born blue-

Wasted, unstoppable, they show

The weird rhythm  of your days to a lover who always

Dodges a bit cagey-

However, that’s very much for him

To get in touch and say ‘hello’, he usually dodges

Dirty jobs, if the soul stares in awe at briars,

The sunset hides to ravage them-

Long story short, you too hide in the blue

The soul desires-all right, all right, no choice for you

If your places don’t live in you so they reject

A rendezvous with you-

Well, Father, to be honest even the moon rejects

To quench her thirst, maybe it’s the right time for sounds

To fade away, not that you like them, as the days from the mothers rape

Your winter, same here, same here.

The point is, one fine day the roots of your being

Would like to wither away leaving no trace-

Great, but your body your limbs are set on

Making it hard for them-

They might just love life, or they can’t wait to ground

Father who threw them at you in bulk.

Hers was the sort of kindness born out of fear,

The soul was a scared lady:

Particularly when in the morning the grudge of the light

Was quite a piece of work:

No depths of an abyss for shaken souls,

They might get excited, and anyway

The swamps weren’t that dangerous-

Those problems apart, her days made the clouds blue-dust,

And did justice to the blazing beings-

Maybe God in spite of everything? -

But blue was the dawn of words, when she was listening

To her myths, where even the waves are wild,

Stronger than the shocked rhythms

In a tangle of matching reds-

Meantime, for his part, the angel of secrecy,

So very sick and tired of his aging Eden,

Breaks in your house and shuts

All the blue hours in your days.

Awful, isn't it, mainly because you have

No moors at hand, no wild grass, no stray leaves-

Just make do with your wistful stones,

A betrayed green if the water stays still-

What a foolish makeshift, what a waste of limbs,

And you’d love to swap them

With meadows, rapids, streams-

Oh, don’t I know, you look for green

As the father of every tale, but your search is tangled up,

Even words meddle in and cut up, my soul, your grip.

© 2022 Gabriella Garafalo

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; Blue Branches, and  A Blue Soul.

Women's History Month: Saturday, March 20, 2021: Gabriella Garafalo's poem "Hard Times"

Hard Times

Hard times on the horizon,

Hush everyone, the deranged clerk

Threw his ‘nope’ at the CEO-

And now the houses ablaze in blue

Are shunted into shards of disdain,

And now young women on a night out

Are hopping on their heels,

Think they look smashing,

Yeah right-

Same old, same old,

There she goes,

Her stranded soul

Amongst cold stars,

Marooned on desert skies,

Chanting God feeds you

Even though he let books,

And burning souls wander around,

Chanting Odysseus and his mates

Gorge on your mind-

Her soul, sure, why not,

Once you met her, she’d got an ASBO

After setting ablaze men, blue,

Scrap, dissension,

Bless her, she couldn’t let go

Of times, creeds, and rites-

Got it now? And her shades, now,

The ungodly shades rhythm or grace

Always shunned- look at them,

Still hooking up with electric blue eyes,

Still hunting down words, while anger

Scars her with cider, flowers, glazes-

Great for mothers only, aren’t we, my days?

Keep clear, then, don’t trust birth, time,

As only waves, only skies

Slake their thirst in her mind’s cafés,

Adrenaline spiking and raped winters

If you ever chance on them-

Such shady guys, and starving to boot-

Thank God hypermnesic stones can help,

So, rage as hard as you want,

But your light’s dying, I’m afraid,

She’s lighting fires on her way out,

And yes, the CEO gave us such nice treats,

Limbs, and free will, so what?

Women will show up as electric shocks,

With their shrieking voices,

Men as sudden blackouts,

With their silence-

‘Course the last word shall be yours,

My darling, to spite you rotten,

And make you choke on fizzies and pies

You fancy a lot-

Good for you, oh and so sorry

My life’s confort food for you starving rotten,

O darling demise

© 2021 Gabriella Garafalo

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; Blue Branches, and  A Blue Soul.