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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