Even if you are the tanned sprout
tightly packed
in pretty cane
filled with olive oil
you could not stop to dream about ocean,
lolled by such hopes and illusions
seemed groundless absolutely.
But while your truth is hard and distorted
you will soon unavoidable
unpacked and go to the trip
to the Christmas table
where served with cheese and red wine
for the sweet departure
to the stomachs of more luckier dreamers and gourmands.
I wish you to be eaten by nice lady
if it would you relax and nurtured
for other form of coexisting
in body of whom who devoured us.
But if you are the ended atheist
white a little, headless sprouty,
all of them
who caught, cut, prepared, tanned,
mailed, sold, baught, presented
and ate you
will be combined together
chewed, crumbled, munched
and return to the soil of mother nature.
From where you will select,
ask and have full right to start
more preferable fate and future.
Wild are the spring flowers which win my heart
wood violets blue, and those Johnnie jump-Up starts
waves of ajunta burgundy glow
pierced with lost daffodils standing apart
a gourmands delight admired a la carte
'mong seas of forsythia fences are draped.
Bushes of fuzzywillows looking smart,
cozy up to dirt roads soften the heart.
even the dandelions make a fine tableaux
as off I go my head spinning with art
to paint images, the sweet and the tart
expressionist posies, as if for VanGogh.
Indian strawberries dot gardens in beds
as buttercups yellow, slip through rye grass
tickled by warm winds and skies overcast.
Oh, I'm ready to paint the beauty ahead
with crimson, vermilion and titanium lead.
Sitting on a hummock I draw the repast
mixing my colors on a piece of glass
stunned by the wild flowers, most over tread.
*Dante's variation on the Italian sonnet.