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Click title to open PDF microchap
Cover collage by JanK
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Sunshine
leans on my skin
like a weight
without sound,
Cooking molecules
in no hurry
to leave,
into piles of darkness
spilled
onto the night,
as my body cools
from my knees down;
warmth no longer
a thing to be desired.
Night Music
The water in this small pond whispers
to the rocks trying to be quiet,
while the cloud of dusk rises
and shimmers. Night creatures awake.
Schools of minnows
dart back and forth—racing
for pleasure.
The pond holds some secrets
worth knowing:
Mother Earth breaths,
Rocks know your name,
Darkness sooths,
Animals know more than we do.
While old turtle slowly smiles,
observes the newly formed night
and slides into this small pond to feed.
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Night crawlers and red worms
All earthworms
ruminate like cows,
with four stomachs, dissolving
themselves as they
mix, aerate, ingest—
bringing their own ‘sompin’-sompin’’
which is a natural talent for expelling
slow-released nutrients.
Listening to deep darkness
in silent contemplation,
worms are not the center of it all —
they don’t gossip over accomplishments.
Their ego is excreted along with the refuse,
as the self dissolves — nature absorbs.
Dill
permeates every area
of my garden.
This fine, blue-green leafed
herb is coming up amid
the lettuces, carrots and flowering basil,
competing for space
with the spinach and parsley.
It’s slender, hollow stems (silently)
sneak among
the tomato leaves. The white-yellow
flowers shake hands with the pole beans.
The fern-like presence
nestles between the zucchini leaves
and share space with asparagus fronds.
The dill thinks being a friendly
neighbor is like flavor in the garden,
adding its aromatic magnificence.
But the others think Dill is too big
for its own good.
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Sowing Seeds
I try to feel the earth through my sandal’s soles.
My toes stretch in their search
for the sustenance only gotten from soil.
Finally, I discard these shoes keeping us apart;
dance in tangled grasses
and weeds; sow seeds of joy
with my feet stirring the
effervescent path.
I lay down in the tall prairie
grasses and smell the sweet soil.
Worms tickle and trace a trail
along the calf of my leg.
A honey bee buzzes a message
in my ear. I’m clear
up to heaven before
I’m called back.
I wait to don my sandals
until I get home.
Trees Form Tunnels
The trees have grown so, they make
a tunnel of the road,
growing close enough to form
walls in either side.
What lurks just inside the trees?
Bear or wolf, badger or deer?
I gaze into the clearing to see
if I can spy anything,
Yet the visions I hold so near,
are merely conjecture
from an overly active imagination.
When did they come?
And, where are they now?—
Wild animals that tunnel
into walls on either side.
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Annette Gagliardi © 2023
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Click title to open PDF microchap
Cover credit:
Callejuela de pueblo rural,
tipico de Asturias con gallina
por el medio by LLeandralacuerva
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A metered poem in six stanzas
that creates a small drama.
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In Cordova #1
On Smith Street
behind
the market,
small, pink-
skinned piglets
skitter
among weeds.
Gamin,
whose necks will
be sliced-
supplying
breakfast.
In Cordova #2
Blinding sunlight
hides the weeds -
alley cats chase
young chickens
whose feathered necks
will be cut
swiftly along
with the rest,
red blood running
in the sun
down the crevice
that divides.
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In Cordova #3
A spider sat
above me
while I did my
business,
its juices dripped
on my leg
just before I
stood to spy
its treachery
in the eaves-
a canopy
of sunlight.
In Cordova #4
Chicory and rose
perfumed the air.
Mariachi songs
ascend the stair.
Charro suits glitter
with treachery.
In the plaza she
dances and twirls -
her red skirts shimmer
and black hair whirls.
Her ebony eyes
are contraband.
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In Cordova #5
His new pistol is
pressed down upon
leather pants he wears,
its cold nose snug
against his skin - so
tight with remorse.
She waits in the yard,
behind the store
her juices dripping
perfumed silence.
The taste of his lips
is contraband.
In Cordova #6
Something sinister hides
in shadowed doorway.
She pulls her lover close,
kissing his lush lips.
One tender moment passes
among the weeds, then
gone too soon - like high noon
in gunfire and smoke-
one significant stroke-
and his red blood runs
mingling with squeal and cluck
down the stained divide.
* With a nod to William Carlos Williams “Between the Walls”
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Annette Gagliardi © 2021
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Click title to download PDF microchap
Cover photo by author
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Earth in My Journey
I wanted to put some earth
in my journey -
get down to the soil,
dig up the loam,
and till it some -
plow and plant a little
in the earth of my life
to see what grows-
I wanted to sow a new
seed in the turf -
to see if a better person
could walk this earth.
Published in the Mpls. Southwest
Journal, September 21, 2017.
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The Pope’s Beef Benedict
Hiding in my luggage are two
bottles of Merlot, a wheel of Parmesan
and a Pinocchio Marionette
debating the wisdom of traveling
to distant lands where one finds
such mysteries,
where one can dine on the Pope’s Beef
Benedict with its juxtaposition
of seared meat and raw taste,
which I ate for supper, along with a red wine
so full and voluptuous, like the women in Rome
who bare their bosoms to the sun,
who sing to the angels and plant their pomegranates
of spring in hopes of a good harvest.
Let us remember their sacrifices.
Let us call to them to remind us of their
lusty lives and austere motivations.
Let us send our gratitude skyward to a God
who would provide such riches and Thanks
be to God that we can view the road our ancestors
traveled, learn from their journey, and build on
the wisdom unearthed.
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In Assisi
We shuffled into the small room
single file, quietly–mute as church
dust, snugged up close to each other
like children nestled in their beds.
We sat silently, contemplating our
opportunity and good fortune.
The wooden beams spoke;
the low ceiling centered us;
calmed and claimed us,
in the rose perfumed air.
I wept there, in the chapel,
as we had mass. Eight hundred
years is a long time to keep
the faith, yet only a second
to those who came before.
The peace of God touched us;
His hand on our heads, as we knelt
there in prayer - the same way
that he touched St. Francis
and St. Clare so many years ago.
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Relics
I’ll put you in a glass coffin
and display your bones,
list your many achievements
while I hone the trumpeting of
your life-charging a dollar per look.
I’ll place stanchions along
the floor so the viewing
line can snake through your
holy place, pay a penny
for their thoughts of you,
a man of all ages, a man
to be venerated.
Your photo will hang
in people’s homes
as an example of good
works and holy thoughts,
because, everybody wants
your chromosomes,
and a reason for the plaque
on their wall saying,
“Jones slept here.”
It never gets old.
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Boats of Naples Bay
sunshine yellow paint peels
to reveal blue undertones –
that alone gives rise to the size
of the light in your eyes
that same yellow - repeating
the daffodil
of the harbor buoys -
the lemon yellow of our toys
the setting sun scales the mountain
rising from the sea and shimmering
from the water’s edge,
just below the surface
in hues of primrose,
cadmium, mustard & gold –
yet none so bold as when
the sun reveals blue undertone
dozing together,
riding the placid tide
we pledge to die here,
in each other’s arms.
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The Grapes
The grapes still clutch
the vine
along the backyard fence
clusters of birds
harvest the leftovers
like a picnic
their juice sweetens
like wine
as the nights cool
just enough left
to pool
and intoxicate
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Annette Gagliardi © 2021
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