Category Archive: Poems

Jun 02

Castel Sant’ Angelo


Too azure…

The Roman sky.

Smiles on their faces: mothers and little children.


Where are their men?


Tourists all over

The ancient Roman walls

Taking pictures and pictures and pictures…


Where are their souls?


Cuddled in their desolate coats

Dust in their wrinkles…


Where are their homes?


The angel up above has lost its sword…


When will I learn to fly?

The view from Castel Sant' Angelo, Rome, Italy. Photographed by Valentina Nesci


This poem was originally published in Remus’s Literary Journal, Volume II


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Jun 01

On Box Making

Boxes come in many forms.
Some are thin and some are fat,
Some are round and others square,
And some even have steering wheels.

Still others are of a subtler sort.
for instance
If I say I’m bad at sports
Or Calculus
Or loving
Well, there’s a box that I just made and sat right down in.

Or if I were to insist that you do it this way
Or not that way
Or not at all
Well, now I’ve made a box for you and stuck you in it.

So try not to be overzealous in your box-making.

It would be like if you sat down to write a poem, and I told you not to use any words beginning with vowels.
And you had once been criticized by your fifth-grade teacher for writing a run-on sentence, so you decided you’d better play it safe and keep to really short ones.
And I told you you’d better not use any long words either.
Just to be safe.
Well, pretty soon there’d be only one word left to write:


…but that’s hardly to say that all boxes are bad.

The canvas of O’ Keefe, the sonnet of Shakespeare, the symphony of Schubert: these are royal boxes, fit for a queen, as she watches life play out, discerning details that many might miss.

The right box can also keep us safe and comfortable, as many a cutely curled kitty can testify.

So my advice would simply be that whatever cube you encase yourself in, take note of where you’ve placed the walls.
And leave yourself a door — two, in case of fire.
Or at least give yourself a window.

At any rate, that is how I would construct my box.

But you don’t have to do it that way, if you find it too constricting.

This poem was originally published in The Musings of Marc Evans

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May 31

Eternal Fire

Pray let me dwell in the colorful bliss of blindness

And overlook the lies that time has painted on my wall.

I close my eyes, invoke sleep’s absentmindedness

But for the sake of honesty, some things I can’t ignore.


I therefore gingerly, hesitatingly, force my eyes open

And walk into the lion’s lair, with nothing but my pen

It’s not a wand I’m holding, of this I am aware

And I am no magician, but I have a story to share.


It won’t make clocks run backwards; it’s not a secret cure

It’s just the knowledge that we’re not only cold skin, but fire

That nourishes your body even when the soul is starving,

And makes a soldier fight even if wounded, or while dying.


Some people call it ingenuity, others foolish stubbornness

The cynics call it love, and atheists like to call it faith.

But my light can’t be named, it can only be seen

It’s both in my eyes and yours,


Can you see it?

First Published in Remus Literary Journal, Volume II

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May 27

La Luna

Pale blue eyes, you’re here

Painting poems in my head, weaving secrets in my soul.

I write to you, with my chocolate pen,

on tip toes, like a blind man on the edge of a precipice.

My makeup melts in front of you,

I’m just a clown with no more jokes to share

And yet you laugh,

Until she comes, and smiles at you

White dress, earrings, beauty, flair.


Lips turn blue, you’re gone.

Nothing but your  perfume to fill the space you left

I circle your house, a wilted sunflower

Begging with no hands, singing silently.

Then, unexpectedly,

The Moon starts barking.

Tap water got us drunk.

But we won’t tell them how it happened.

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