Art with tar.
A voila` poem : "tendra naranjo en flor"
Beginning this coming Saturday
I will write a book of poems
called : " 29 poems this February "
One a day, and send them to you and you.
Whoever collects them and surprises me
with few copies of them as a manuscript,
I will be so thankful ...!
and show my gratitude
with showers of more poems
and hurricanes of music
and endless diamonds
and perfumed sunsets
Hawaii and Tahiti for you
from me
and sweet mint tea in Marrakesh
and a gondola ride under full moon
a balloon ride over the vineyards
and montes serenos.
Am I giving away too much ?
Okay, the piano and her playing
conspired to make me give...
A kiss, a kiss, before the night
trembles away with the shimmering
galaxies of stars
and the milk
of the universe.
"Uno por dia, en Febrero "
Mauro, thursday , jan. 30th
XX XX
February first and doppo morire
or vedere Roma.
Work at what, writing a poem ?
Never!
Writing poetry should be a paseo,
a stroll in the park, a deer park
full of Bodhi trees .
Candy poem
con candela
and camaraderie.
Poemas de cafe.
Poemas en Sausalito.
North Beach poems.
Big Sur poems.
Tangiers.
Venice.
Istanbul.
Bahia.
Half moon bay
Este febrero volvere un poco
a esa lengua espaniola
que me vio nacer.
Mauro.
feb. 1st .
UNO
XX XX
CONVEX OR CONCAVE
El amor sacro o el amor profano?
That is the question.
Tell your story, convex or concave?
So many questions
and it is just Monday.
Rain in the horizon
wind right behind it.
The moon content
Jupiter quiet
and Venus in heat,
good winter heat.
The rock rose bush thriving
in the greenhouse.
All houses should be green
all roofs must leak
a little bit.
All fences rot,
walls collapse,
have we not learned "any"...
Every year has its winter
and every four years a storm.
But what will the future be,
will it be concave:
receiving, amalgamation,
recruiting, accepting,
recovering...
Or will it be convex:
exporting, denying,
declining,
embarging, molestation.
Mauro
Monday
Feb 1st of the lunar calendar
Not 2021.
Like perfect pitch
the rose is a rose
rare ability to give scent
without reference
The sum of all being
actual and potential
the jasmine entwined
wrapped around sentences
Like perfect perspective
to see Turner's paintings
under the London fog
clear eyes
A "Mozarted" poem
written in a whim
casual as a caged bird
singing
Arriving at the syntactic
summit
with out laborious
climbing
Deaf to the rules
as Beethoven
and yet writing loudly
But of course
we have few Bachs
in literature
Is there a thing
as perfect grammatic craft
Will merit reward
the hard at work
or the hardly working
I dont want to over do it
spoiling the vastness
of this short little present moment
looking for words to describe a flower' scent
Of course one can not write for everybody
the whole of academia passing by
thru a window going fast on a bus
and you are not there riding it
Nor here nor there
occupied with the maintenance
of the magnetic world and other daily minutiae
nostril hairs ear wax
swimming with dolphins
praising and praying
in contradictory tides
For you to say : work at it
if you want to get good
and me responding : the rose committed to being a rose
has the scent to prove it !
Mauro
Feb.segundo.
In-between Poem.
numero uno.
Secede! time to go sailing
to new horizons,
get the boats ready
let’s aim for warm places.
Away from this insanity,
but wait... wait...
we are not going anywhere
we want them to go!
In my book you are out,
I am staying
and making this union
all over again.
We will burn the old constitution and replace all senators and congress men and women
and jail some with supreme court judges and lawyers.
EXHALE.
We survived Monica,
we can survive this apprentice.
The joker sits at the white house but only does that,
sits and eat peanuts
and talks golfing and sport fishing ... Let’s have compassion
for this retarded narcissist
homophobic racist mother fucker...
as history brakes apart
this fervent union.
Secede California !
Mauro Feb. tres XX XX
I watched the sun set today
over the glorious Pacific,
the waves rolling perfectly,
parents walking their kids,
bikers, surfers, birds.
The sky Cezanne blue.
The light, Van Gogh
Hard to think that
in this beautiful
and industrious land
all is not well.
Things happen
in a particular time.
All deposited love
is in a crisis
no finance's wizard can resolve.
There is interest
sticking again
in the cumulative mud
of discontent.
The fear
that feeds the anger,
sells.
All is not well.
The makers of faith and regulations,
from the podium of the senate
to the altars of temples,
insist in making us believe
we are better than what we really demonstrate
with our actions.
From the sanctum of social media
far away in the south Pacific
the Titans rule: be heard, or not.
All is not well
because friends are missing
the hugs of friends,
and the friendly kissing
and the things we did
when we were free.
Are we really that late...?
Have we crossed the Mississippi?
Has the milk of our way soured?
I will not leave you with catastrophe,
but with music and champagne.
I will end this poem with a song.
I will end this poem
with the word: "song"
and the words of a song
that sings: Aauuummmmmmmerica.
Mauro
jan 17th
3 days to the 20th.
Forza!
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