Untitled by Gabriella Garofalo
Sorry to bug you again, you know I’m a PITA,
Got some leftovers of light for us, God?
It’s Whitsun today -
OK, it doesn’t show, but I can’t blame you
Can I, only I sorry need blue blankets,
It’s May’s fault, he’s running amok
To breed cold lights, coughs,
Wild skies, our only option
On the outskirts of a light we die for,
On the fringes of a light where we snuggle up
Nonchalant to heartburn and trinkets -
Know what, God, sometimes our souls
Are sort of lawns suburban matrons
In slippers and bikinis trample -
See how the smashed cows stumble -
Or maybe it’s warriors in chukka boots
Who trample, leave pitch black prints,
Oh, and toddlers running riot on trikes,
Toys anywhere, alien contraptions all over
To bite and bruise, nope, I kid you not -
Green? Maybe a lovely veneer,
But lilac and periwinkle went AWOL
Or lost in action -
Ancient stones are hissing
They spotted them hidden in ladies’ hair,
Or so they sigh in a disturbance of colours,
McDonald's balloons shriek louder than toddlers,
Don’t they?
Now please don’t waste time,
Don’t look around in a lost gaze,
All sold out, no dancing, no cosy spots for spinsters,
Luckily men shake their heads, say nope,
Walk faithful dogs and you, girl, easy,
Easy, girl, easy, don’t run so brisk,
Don’t burn the midnight oil,
They’re carrying bright paper lanterns,
Your children, yes, they’ll smite black
And the two ladies, one tickled pink,
She’s moving to a seaside resort,
Sand, bikinis, discos galore,
The other a grumpy workaholic
Who keeps bitching people take her for granted -
What? Yes, the lover of sea, sand and fun all clad in black,
The dreary grind in white -
Their names? Sorry, dunno, maybe
Life and demise, who cares,
Just make no light of the words they told you -
Please don’t, pretty pretty please -
Don’t, and I mean never.
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”; “Blue branches."
Got some leftovers of light for us, God?
It’s Whitsun today -
OK, it doesn’t show, but I can’t blame you
Can I, only I sorry need blue blankets,
It’s May’s fault, he’s running amok
To breed cold lights, coughs,
Wild skies, our only option
On the outskirts of a light we die for,
On the fringes of a light where we snuggle up
Nonchalant to heartburn and trinkets -
Know what, God, sometimes our souls
Are sort of lawns suburban matrons
In slippers and bikinis trample -
See how the smashed cows stumble -
Or maybe it’s warriors in chukka boots
Who trample, leave pitch black prints,
Oh, and toddlers running riot on trikes,
Toys anywhere, alien contraptions all over
To bite and bruise, nope, I kid you not -
Green? Maybe a lovely veneer,
But lilac and periwinkle went AWOL
Or lost in action -
Ancient stones are hissing
They spotted them hidden in ladies’ hair,
Or so they sigh in a disturbance of colours,
McDonald's balloons shriek louder than toddlers,
Don’t they?
Now please don’t waste time,
Don’t look around in a lost gaze,
All sold out, no dancing, no cosy spots for spinsters,
Luckily men shake their heads, say nope,
Walk faithful dogs and you, girl, easy,
Easy, girl, easy, don’t run so brisk,
Don’t burn the midnight oil,
They’re carrying bright paper lanterns,
Your children, yes, they’ll smite black
And the two ladies, one tickled pink,
She’s moving to a seaside resort,
Sand, bikinis, discos galore,
The other a grumpy workaholic
Who keeps bitching people take her for granted -
What? Yes, the lover of sea, sand and fun all clad in black,
The dreary grind in white -
Their names? Sorry, dunno, maybe
Life and demise, who cares,
Just make no light of the words they told you -
Please don’t, pretty pretty please -
Don’t, and I mean never.
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”; “Blue branches."
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