Friday, 17 February 2012

The Morning After

The morning after he left for that unknown plain,
From the window top - I see him!
Curled on his garden chair in grace, like a ball,
Bathing under morning’s ray,
Careful not to fall,
Stretching out his hind,
Back straight and strong,
Till standing tall,
Turning his ears,
Upon the sound of breakfast’s call.

But as the day whispers words of growth and green,
Flowering the garden – setting the scene,
The world dances around my shadow long enough,
For his sketch to rise,
And smoke away like puff,

Yet, as I turn to discover my own fate,
When out from under my desk,
Rests his purple cushion in state,
Impressed with yesterday’s paw,
And echo’s of licking lips…
I realize now, that I am no more.

For when I’m thrown next to his little feet,
Where no sun conquers,
And my body with the worms meet,
History pulls ready his hand,
As time locks us out,
Inside his keep,

Oh, inverted we lie,
As future Children bloom in my garden gone,
Spending their green under a cycle of sky,
Running under tree and over stone,
Only to abandon their game,
As mother orders home,

But as tea brings them a much needed rest,
Their little arms and legs flail,
As time calls to get dressed,
Tucked into the sheets,
Awaiting tomorrow’s garden game with a smile so sincere,

How little they know.
That once two best friends,
Lived here.

© 2011 Roberto Nacci All Rights Reserved

Thursday, 26 January 2012

The indifferent moon

My journey, a gingerly walk underneath the veteran’s winters paint, tis an expedition I would have rather not take’d.  Flung into this madness, I contribute my piece, between the limits of my existence, those jagged edges of a mountain deep, I take my travels far-above and close-beneath, creeping silently, lantern in hand – a dying flame that obscures the land.

Tis not me to decide nor select whether or not next I be elect, but tis the rule of the moon, in smile or scream, who sets sail to find another place of which to lean.  Till then I must crawl in play along this open green.

Ah! my moon, that suspended rock in the sky, what does it take for even a soft reply? Be it a murmur or better, half a line…I await you in the old man’s tavern till nine.  To share a joke is all I ask, before we part ways forever-last, and the worms beneath the morning dew take their turn to speak to you.

Oh, my moon, don’t you care? what heaven records inside His lair? Look! my knowledge of the trees and stones abound, my logic’s sharp, my vision sound.  Come, give one a chance, to show you why the world appears a sneering lie.

Oh…drunk like a fish I must be to wait, for your rule of silence is still pretty quaint.  For with tomorrow’s years I hammer yesterday away, shining a light so pure that one day I shall bring even you a cure, but still you turn your shoulder unsure.

My moon…suspended you are in space agape, silently watching over us ants figure out an escape.  I close the tome of a thousand years, and rush outdoors in hysterical tears.  Crying out the rivers dry, now I begin to understand why, teasing us with hot summer’s day and cold winter’s rains, all I can do is fake my life in happy chains.

© 2011 Roberto Nacci All Rights Reserved