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  April 2017
volume 14 number 1
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  featured poets
  John LaMar Elison
  Gabriella Garofalo
  John Grey
  Dani Raschel Jiménez
  Scott C. Kaestner
  Rick Lupert
  Afric McGlinchey
  Bethany W Pope
  Sanjeev Sethi
  mailing list
Gabriella Garofalo April 2017



photo by marie c lecrivain

    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, and Blue branches.



Need Some Angels?

Need some angels? You keep stumbling on
Broken pens, stolen ribs, lizards on rosebuds -
All to no avail the gallows:
They whisper that souls -
Damned or lost, of course -
Live in the green springing
From stone and concrete, those tall blades
Intractable until passers-by trample on -
Whatever- and I say whatever- be the harvest:
Grass, disappearance, healing herbs,
Do give your hands, soul:
Boys and girls looking out the window,
Brightly painted walls,
Life's a teen today -
Father, we talk dreams when cold rips off
When we long for brighter moments,
But grass shies away -
Will she ever say her name? -
Disappearance asks words for a date
Discord keeps schtum
Only in shining features -
Waves, angels, clouds -
Look, why this blue funk?
Afraid of addressing them or what?
C'mon, life, a bit of healthy blue
Doesn't bite, does it?
Well, maybe just kids and begetters -
Is that you, God?
Do they still call you no man's land?

copyright 2017 Gabriella Garofalo




Midmorning, raining -
She's looking for them in her safe haven of lies,
Forlorn prayers who failed to reach God,
Where are they now, no room for them in pantries,
Cupboards, shelves, books came first of course -
So where the hell have they been hiding?
Children with stars on their sleeves,
Castaways, dead, they all waiting:
Is there enough room for unheard prayers?
Ok. You might call them back,
Even address them by name,
Midmorning swarms with comets, angels,
Days of birth and decay, one of them might give advice -
Soon they'll dismiss her and she'll go into rehab,
So forget if gods stay silent,
No cold feet if ladies walk through you -
By the by, why are their shoes red hot? -
Look, she's wheezing among words,
C'mon, soul, tie her up lest she mistake stars with shadows,
Yes, the young scared light throwing herself at seasons
When no guides no sextants light up an all-inclusive blue -
Alarms, Black Marias, mislaid baubles -
But you gently stroke your streets and towns,
Forgo the moon if gossips say "Too cold",
But red-haired girls in short summer frocks
Dream of life's many gifts,
Among them light in the killer's eyes,
The great chiseller, loss who made souls askew,
Oh well, you don't have a spare soul, do you?
Nor good Samaritans bend to pick it up
For their collection of suburban fallen souls.

copyright 2017 Gabriella Garofalo