MEN'S VOICES: THE STATE OF THE WORLD AND THE STATE OF OUR HEARTS

Today we are listening to the men in our community, as they share their poems and thoughts on the state of the world, how it weighs on our hearts, and what keeps us going in spite of it all. Definitely topics we can relate to; as poets, we seem keenly aware of, not just the beauty of the world, but its darkness. Perhaps our poems can shed a little light into the dark corners and lighten the way just a little. We can hope. Let's listen to Bjorn Rudberg, Ollie the Tired Monk, Michael (grapeling), and Marcoantonio, whose words run in counterpoint to the daily news.

ONLY THE LIVING CAN FEAR

The taste of fear is open, pure and red —

a lump of meat, its poppies lost and flown

from cries in mud, in trenches darkly bled.

We harvested our fear from fields we’d sown

with honey dripping from our leaders’ tongue.

The scent of fear is blood and broken bones.

We fought with tears and cried with broken lungs,

we bulwarked, starved, believed it’s more than right,

to maim our foes, the newborns and their young.

The sound of fear is sweat of starlit nights,

we waited as the forest grew inside,

it spread with rotting hands and ropes wound tight

   around our necks the night we lost our pride

   when life was soiled and all we knew had died.

This sonnet is one that I have been working with through several different versions. The original version was written for Real Toads as a sonnet challenge, and when we started our form project at dVerse. In this particular one, I worked with Terza Rima rhyme scheme inside a Shakespearean sonnet. The idea on the poem is a subject on the evil in every one of us; lately I have watched many documentaries about the big wars in Europe and I fear that war will come back one day. I think the war itself is less interesting but more how human being changes, how ordinary men can do the most horrific things, and how war, fear and hatred will make humans do things we would not be capable of during peace.

Sherry: I suppose if soldiers thought of the other side as being human, they could not fight at all. I am most struck by the lines "when life was soiled and all we knew had died." It is no wonder soldiers come home with inner wounds. They have experienced hell. Thank you for this thoughtful poem, Bjorn.

Michael recently wrote a poem that offers us a positive reflection, amidst all the gloom of wars, climate change, crazed leaders, and despairing refugees. We need his words of hope!

The World Is Not Going

the world is not going
to hell anymore
than the sun is burning
out: tomorrow
will burn just the same as today.

I’ve neglected the garden;
it hasn’t missed me. Dirt accepts
wet or dry equally, it’s only living
things that notice the difference
but still, I noticed today’s rain

continually high-fiving the Meyer lemon
which bowed in return, as though smiling,
yellow rind glistening like an old man’s stained teeth
or mine in the window.
What is a half century

if fifty revolutions is a myth:
the entire solar system swirling
in spirals around a star racing through space
so maybe the world is going
after all

Sherry: We live in hope! Mother Earth tries her best, in spite of our mistreatment, to carry out her cycles. What gives me comfort is that she can heal, if we give her half a chance. Where did this poem come from, Michael?

Michael: My impending half century at the time was the foundation. 

This poem was posted in reply to Grace's prompt at toads about David Huerta, and having now revisited it, I see that in the poems she highlighted he wrote of fruit. I suspect his lemon, coupled with the scrawny Meyer bush outside my then-bedroom window, inspired the one here. Perhaps I had witnessed a then-rare rain buffet the winter rind.

Rereading Grace's notes, she observed that Huerta's poetry invites the reader to participate in constructing the meaning of the poem, a precept I admire - after all, it could be that. 

I've always been curious about the concept of time, relativity, space, and how we feeble humans so often insist there are great cycles, but how cosmology shows us we spin through space and time without ever really tracing the same path again.

Or maybe it was none of that, just idle musings. Spinning into another year older makes the mind wander, doesn't it?

Sherry: It certainly does. Thank you so much, Michael.

I always love it when Ollie, the Tired Monk (and one of our first members at Poets United) pops up on the blogroll. No matter what is happening on earth, the Tired Monk can be seen in his tattered robes, sweeping, shoveling, chopping wood, with his temple dog beside him. That gives me great comfort.

scattered bits n'fragments

i)

tired
deep temple dog tired
tired of wars
...words
n' wars on words

tired of fighting
pushing on the last few
fading monks
to move
just move

ii)

coffee pot
bottom burned black
       needs scrubbing
morning of wet monk
sleeves

iii)

energy drink cans
scattered up the ditches
or squashed flat
and paved over
in the pre-frost rush

iii)

this violin
is a fiddle in these hands
sawing  - mingling
with Americana chords
lifting n'healing
yer broken heart

         *****     *****

Sherry: I, too, feel that bone-deep weariness. Regular people are so tired of all the sparring, the rhetoric, the damage that is being done. I love the tune you play to help heal all the broken hearts, my friend. Heaven knows we can use a good tune!

     *****    *****

A Question  

you really the tired monk?

yeah
bone weary tired

beat burdened
but still ready
to serve

propped up
by temple dog walks
a few warm holy songs
maybe a slug of highland healing
bit of Drambuie warding
off this winter cough

yep
held up by these monk robes

...just

source

Sherry: This strikes a chord, as I see hard-won gains being stripped away, injustice everywhere, climate change melting the planet....I try to hang on to optimism and hope. But some days ... just.

Ollie: Being a monk these days is such a blessing.  There is much work to be done, and many to serve.  Some days my more human parts break down.  This piece is a meditation on what keeps me moving forward in this world: a little music, my temple dogs, and maybe a nip of single malt.  Today I felt like the only thing holding me up were my old battered monk robes.  

Sherry: I have those days, too, without the support of monk robes. But my cane helps! Thank you for this poem, Ollie. Your poems always make me smile. I can see the Tired Monk, bravely battling the snowdrifts in eastern Canada.

Marcoantonio, another early member at Poets United, wrote a very perceptive poem on these topics, which I am happy he agreed to share with us. Let's take a look:

Fire and Storms

devastation of storms and floods appear 
then come the hell of fires and words are
said from a tongue of sharpen blades not for 
the sake of pain for loss or sorrow but for the sake
of their own tomorrow 

the flower does not blame the wind
for its loss of petals, the rain for
their wilting, the sun for being parched
with too much heat or for the night
stealing the day

in selfishness and greed there is
no good that comes but a sadness
and lament avails for the souls departed
and all who is left are the lonely and  
the cold hearted

source

Marco: My piece reflects the present conditions of how our country, the U.S.A., is being devastated by Hurricanes and Forest fires, and how our present resident of the White House has little empathy for the specific states affected - either because one is basically 'brown' people, and the other, because it was and is a state that is not supportive of his continued 'megalomania', narcissistic, racist, xenophobic, self-serving ego.

Sherry: Plain words, Marco, and I share your frustration at the widespread social injustices that are occurring. In your poem, I am most struck by the line "the flower does not blame the wind for its loss of petals." That is very beautiful.

Thank you so much, gentlemen, for your poems, which illuminate so well the state of our hearts at the present state of the world. Shall we overcome? I hope so, for the sake of the young.

Do come back, my friends, and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poems of the Week: Men's Voices

This week, poet friends, I thought it would be nice to hear from the men. We have poems by Nicholas V. of Intelliblog, Robin Kimber, (our beloved Old Egg), of  Robin's Nest,   Marcoantonio, of Life Whispers, and Cheong Lee San, (whom we know more familiarly as dsnake), of Urban Poems.  Each has offered a unique look at the world. And Robin has a treat for we dog lovers in this feature that will make you smile. Pour a cup of tea, draw your chairs in close, and let's dive in. Enjoy!

Sherry: Recently, Nicholas, you wrote a poem that really spoke to us, titled "Closed Doors". Let's take a look at it, shall we?

Closed Doors 

Our doors are closed –
Just like our hearts –
For these are hard times,
Harder than corundum
Ready to grind down
Any trace of mercy.

Our doors are closed –
Just like our minds –
Free thought causes dissent,
Dissent is disunity
And disunity is weakness:
Far easier for prejudice and fear to rule.

Our doors are closed –
Just like our fists –
Clenched tight, ready to strike:
The best defence is swift attack,
Hit now, question later,
Collateral damage easy enough to justify.

Our doors are closed –
Just like our borders –
For we are pure and superior,
And we do not want to be tainted
By foreign blood,
Content in our incestuous decadence.

Our doors are closed –
But some of us leave the keys under the mat:
We of the generous open heart;
We of the free, open mind;
We of the outstretched open hand;
We of the open borders.

We wait for our door to open
And lay another plate on our table
For our food’s enough for one more.
We welcome change and progress
And we embrace the stranger
For our gods have taught us hospitality’s sacredness.

Sherry: Indeed they have. I love the message in this poem, especially in these days when divisiveness is calling upon us to open our hearts and stand united with those seeking asylum from unspeakable horror.

Nicholas: I wrote this poem because of increasing instances of refugees being refused asylum being turned back to return to countries where their lives may be put at risk. Although we live in times that are hard for all of us, there is a mindset now that if we want to preserve what we have we must protect it and keep it for ourselves and not share it, especially not with "foreigners, strangers, people of other religions, people of other ideologies." This doesn't sit right with me. I have personally experienced the immense generosity of people who did not know where their next meal was coming from, yet their soul and heart were full of riches that billionaires will never have.

Sherry: I have also noted that generosity, that inner joy, in people who have very little materially. They offer what they have with open hearts. It is humbling.

Nicholas: I have experienced true Christian values from people who did not know who Christ was. And I have been given the greatest of respect by people whose ideology was diametrically opposed to mine. We can change the world for the better by opening doors and hearts and minds.

Sherry: I completely agree, Nicholas. Thank you for this.

Let's take a peek at Robin's poem next. I know it will make all dog lovers smile. Dogs are often refugees, in need of rescue, as well.

Image found at www.wannasharethis.com

A WORD IN FOR ME

Now I can just see heaven's gate
Sparkling lights wink a welcome
As angels whisper on the trees
And choirs of songbirds sing for me

What blessings have I to account
To retell my life spent on Earth
They shuffle round in wild array
Are these judges in somber robes?

A scroll unfurled tells my earthly life
It matters not my memory fails
It seems I've not sinned that much
But loved both animals and trees

I've talked to birds and played with fish
I tilled the soil and fed myself
Clearly I have passed all these tests
But then I heard an unholy row

Barking and yelping now was heard
As all the pets I ever had
Now bounded up to wish me well
Clearly they'd put a word in for me

Sherry: Well, Robin, of course you know how much I love this poem. Tell us about it, won't you?

Robin: Thank you for thinking of me for the feature “Men’s Voices”.

My poems are always a mixed bag, although I am sure most readers would associate mine with love and romance. This is of course easy to do for me but when posting time comes round I always seem to have a bag full experiences to draw from to put into verse regardless of the prompt. Writing about pets is easy too if they have been part of the family for most of your life. 

When the family dog died when I was about four, the neighbours' dog jumped the fence and decided us two kids next door were much more fun than the older couple who owned him. So it was that when we went out to play in the nearby fields or the woods with a stream running through it, he sensed it and came with us as we were so much more fun. Once married and with a home of our own, Maureen, my wife, thought it would be good with children on the way to have a dog for company and the same pattern was repeated with me as the big kid and the toddlers walking over the heath land throwing sticks in the ponds for Nero (Yes, black as the ace of spades) jumping in the water to cool off and maybe retrieving the stick if he felt like it. 

When the family came to Australia we were in a more urban environment and didn’t get a dog until the next door neighbour pleaded with us to take a black Collie cross who had to be expelled from the farm of a relative because he had started chasing the sheep. So we had him a for a few years and his main fault was that with a dog pound fairly close to call him when he thought the bitches there were in heat. Twice I had to retrieve him from the felony of trying to break into a pound. 

Sherry: LOL. I love it!

Robin: Our last dog was a Golden Labrador cross rescued from a pound as a present for my elder daughter who wanted a dog of her own as a teenager. She gave him the name Caesar and he immediately became one of the family. Despite having a large block of his own to play in, he decided to burrow under the fences and meet the other local dogs and chase off over the fields and in the streams and pretend they were wolves in the wooded areas before coming home for tea worn out and too tired (almost) to eat his dinner. 

Eventually I made the garden fences dog proof and when my daughter was married he had to stay with us, as her accommodation did not permit pets. I was most upset when he became too ill to carry on and I had take him for his last trip to the vet and be brought home again to be buried in his favorite place in the garden.

Luckily all our pets thought they were legitimate members of the family and quite miffed if they couldn’t join in all family activities. Caesar was the only dog, however, that had the sense to go to pick the newspaper up from the front lawn and bring it inside. However he overdid it one day by noticing that there were papers on almost every other front lawn in the street and further afield, for when I looked out the window I saw he had collected at least 20 of them and placed them in a pile and when he saw me looked up waiting to be encouraged to collect a few more. So I had to be paper boy and try to locate the houses to return them to their rightful owners, quite a number of whom were not all that pleased!

So you can see I don’t regret one moment of my life with our pet dogs and thus had no difficulty in writing the poem to their tribute. I forgot to mention that each member of the family could translate Caesar’s growls, woofs and howls into English, so understanding what he was talking about was no trouble at all.

Sherry: I smiled with joy through every word of this. What wonderful creatures shared your life, my friend. I especially love Caesar, bringing home the entire neighbourhood's newspapers. LOL.

Next, Marcoantonio  has been hearing voices on the wind. Let's listen with him.

WHAT COLOR IS THE WIND

what color is the wind,
when blowing through the forest,
the flora, the fauna, the trees?

what color is the wind,
wisping across the ocean,
over rivers and over streams?

what color is the wind,
soaring above with clouds
and riding the azure sky?

what color is the wind,
i breathe as it flows through
my lungs, my veins, my heart?

what color is the wind,
that gives verve to our souls?
is it not the color of everything,

the color of all ?

Sherry: This is so beautiful, Marco. I can almost feel the wind, sifting through the trees, including us all with its touch. Tell us about this poem.

Marco: The wind is a metaphor for our souls all being connected, because the nature of our souls is the same. But I also wanted to point out the analogy that our physical makeup as living beings manifest a commonality, stardust, without a pre-existing prejudice or bias of color, of ethnicity, of race, of gender, of genetic makeup. Our souls are "one" with life, and integral in the makeup of the soul of the 'Universe(s)'.

Sherry: Well said, my friend. We are all the same in all the ways that matter. Our biggest lesson to learn as a human race.

Some weeks back, I deeply admired Lee San's anti-war poem. Let's take a look.


only the dead have seen the end of war*

when i returned in the dead of night
to our little house
you were sleeping, holding our child
your eyelids trembled, just slightly
that cold draft of air
that ruffled your hair
is the howl from my throat
as an arrow pierces my breast.

you rose in the smoke-filled dawn
when the sun had not yet risen
over the rice fields,
the tiled roofs of the town.
you went to the Wall with our child
scanned the stone towers
with your eyes still red with pain.
you read every weary face
every returning warrior
and with each passing day
the smoke rose higher from the rains.

only the dead have seen the end of war.
only the dead see what your tears are for.

[*The title is a quote often attributed to Plato, but possibly written by George Santayana.] 

Sherry: Your poem takes us into the human side of war, the contrast between  the woman sleeping, holding her baby, then next day her red eyes, her pain, the reality of suffering in wartime. Your closing lines are powerful, true, and so moving.

Lee San: A little background on this poem. It was the Chinese 7th month and I thought, I will write a love story, but with a ghostly twist. The setting was ancient China, during the building of the Great Wall. I pinned it to a specific time, but if you change the setting, it could be anywhere in the world. Rome, Mesopotamia, Vietnam. Then I came across this quote "only the dead have known the end of war", often attributed to Plato. And I used it as the title and, hey, do I have an anti-war poem?

Sherry: You do, indeed, my friend. Knowing the background lends added impact to the poem. 

Lee San: Thank you, Sherry, for this opportunity. I think there are many talented poets in this community, male or female, and there are some very distinctive voices. Never looked back since I found this site :) 

Sherry: And we are happy you found us! Thank you for this poem, Lee San.

Thank you, fellow poets, for bringing us your wonderful voices, poetry that speaks straight to our hearts, and for coming back, week after week, to share your work with us. We appreciate you!

Wasn't this wonderful, kids? I hope you enjoyed these meaningful offerings. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

BLOG OF THE WEEK - AN UPDATE WITH MARCOANTONIO

We have a special story for you this week, my friends. We are chatting with Marcoantonio, of Life Whispers. I encourage our readers to read our interview in 2012, when Marco shared in depth the heart-stirring story of his childhood and his beautiful Mamasita, whom we will remember during this conversation as well. It is a story worthy of a book and a film. Today, we are visiting our friendly poet in South Bend, Indiana. The coffee is on and our host is welcoming. Let's dive in.

Sherry: Marco, it is nice to be catching up with you. For our newer members, would you like to give us a snapshot of your life, and those with whom you share your life? What are the joys of South Bend, Indiana?

Marco: we - me, Roberta and Jaz - still reside in Northern Indiana, South Bend. South Bend is a decent community. it’s near Chicago, Southern Michigan and all the Michigan lake front resorts and Indianapolis. this provides us with access to larger cultural centers.

South Bend skyline - source

Sherry: That sounds like an interesting location. Would you like to bring us up to date with recent events in your life, my friend? I know you and your wife have suffered some major losses this past year, and were hit hard by them, beginning with the death of your beloved fur child, Jules.

Marco: we lost our boy Jules in the beginning of last November. unfortunately we lost Roberta’s mother, Ruth, at the end of November. She was a teacher and concert violinist. She was integral in the churches where Roberta's father, Stuart, was minister. Unfortunately, we also lost Stuart, two weeks ago. He was a minister of the Presbyterian religious affiliated churches. he started his ministry in Columbus, Ohio, then South Bend, Indiana, ultimately in Omaha, Nebraska where he also took on the responsibility of Chaplain of OPD. both had longevity and contributed wholly, and were committed to making an impact in their communities through their faith.

Sherry: They sound like very fine people, Marco. My condolences to you and Roberta in their loss, and that of dear little Jules.  How is your remaining fur child, Jaz?

Jules and Jaz

Marco: Jaz is still vibrant and is much loved. She gets our full attention. We are seriously considering adopting a shelter friend for her. He will be no younger than three years old. this is so she doesn’t have to deal with angst of all that comes with a younger puppy.

Sherry: That would be such a good thing, Marco. Especially as dogs who are a bit older aren't always fortunate enough to find a loving home. Let us know when you find him, won't you, Marco?

When did your writing journey begin, mi amigo? Has it companioned you well throughout your life?  I know you sing and play guitar. Is there a connection between music and poetry for you?

Marco: my interest in expressing myself through writing came early when i would write verses for songs. i have so much that is written in pencil and pen, hard copy, that I’m in the process of gathering for a future reference. 

Growing up with Mamasita, who shared her love of voice and music, was a great inspiration. as we all know who enjoy expressing themselves through word also realize the connection of music as an art form of expressing, creatively as well as a cathartic means of dealing with the vicissitudes of life. writing and music which are not mutually exclusive is the human conduit to their existence with the Universe. you know, the vibrations of all that exists.

Sherry: I love the thought of that "vibration of all that exists." For our newer members, would you like to tell us a bit about your Mamasita’s journey, and your own?

Marco: Mamasita brought me and my siblings, (six of us at the time after losing  a sister and brother to childhood infirmities), to the U.S.A in the late nineteen fifties / early sixties. this was to try to experience a world at an arm's length from the disheartening and discontent of an abandoning husband and biologic father to us. She, Raquel Lopez, mi mamasita, had met an American man who promised her a land of security and comfort. 

Not too long after establishing a nest in Indianapolis, mamasita had a child by him, my brother Dan 1. He ended up using us for labor at tilling his farm land. He was extremely abusive both to us and mamasita. She eventually quietly came in contact with someone in the Catholic diocese in Indianapolis, Sacred Heart, who provided us an avenue of escape up to northern Indiana with a Catholic Church and University, Notre Dame University.  

He, this evil man, ended up kidnapping his biologic son, our brother. The FBI searched for him but never with results until he, Dan 1, contacted us many years later. That in itself is a completely other sad story.

this was the beginning of a life for her and us, although beset by an impoverished existence, we were very fortunate to be comforted under the auspices of a caring  cathedral of Holy Cross priests. Mamasita, for most of the rest of her life, worked two, sometimes two and a half jobs in order to keep us fed and sheltered. She loved us with song and wonderful cooking and loving embraces dispersed in small portions, due to time and number of siblings. 

She had a very hard struggling existence in her time here on earth. Hopefully, she was well aware of her children’s adoration and love for her. i miss her very much and I speak to her every day as I look at her pictures set up on my desk  in front of my work space in my small study. Her lovely singing voice still resonates in me and I, on occasion, still strum and sing some of her favorite songs, both Mexican songs in Spanish, and those she loved in English. Her music, her voice, her heart, her strength can never be overstated.

Sherry: She was a valiant and beautiful soul, Marco. Since I first heard her and your story, I have never forgotten her. And your poems to her touch my heart. I would love to include this one, if I may.

dia de madre

Mamasita,
a cardinal, a robin, a cowbird, a blue Jay,
a redwing black bird and a turtle dove
are orchestrating your song for today
they’re rehearsing mamasita’s lullaby
for mamasita day

they’re just outside my window
recalling your favorite tune
you know the one in the morning you’d sing
while the tiny rainbows glittered inside the dew

I vividly remember as a little child
with my hermanos and hermana
gathering, holding hands looking outside
the window as the day begins. you’d tell us
if one sings la cancion ‘esta mananita’
the morning the sun would rise joyously,
the birds would sing its welcome
and you were always right

so today, for you mamasita, with the
back up choir of robins and sparrows
and all their other amigos and even
some ground squirrels chiming in
i sing ‘esta mananita’ to celebrate and honor
you for without you my life would not be

con muchisimo amor, mamasita,
con los angelitos donde estas hoy
te mando mi coracon, todo mi amor

tu hijo, nene

Sherry: Mi amigo, this pings at my heart, and will for every mother who reads it as well. Your mamasita had a very loving son. She was blessed. And so beautiful!

This is where I usually ask a poet to share three of his favourite poems and tell us a bit about each one. You have written some recently that

knocked me out! I am hoping you will allow me to include them here. They say so much about you, my friend. Let's look at "My Soul Speaks".

my soul speaks


my walk today traversed a hillside
through a field of wisteria embracing
a patch of yellow snapdragons and lily of
the valley white bells while busy yellow jackets
and bumble bees buzz, a pollinating dance


conscious and slow with every step
cognizant of this moment listening to
the whispers of the day noticing its
breath as it swirls and sways a field
of wild-flowers like waves at sea


i listen to the voice of my soul speak
as i search to find my ‘within’
bringing my spirit to a brink
grasping my heart with a calming
asking to be witness to peace


the tales of my soul does tell of pain
hovering over sadness and disarray
while wishing the music of love to play
awaiting trials and tribulations to allay


knowing all this to be mundane that
the transcendent spirit will soon discard
severing the tethers and letting the vibrations
to play in sync and rhythm with the
Universe where together they, too, shall dance

Notre Dame, South Bend - source

Sherry: "They, too, shall dance." How I love that!

Marco: my favorite poems or free verse pieces are always the latest because they are the attachment to my present existence. now at my years of aging i try, cognitively and spiritually, to be in the present, the Now.

‘my soul speaks’...... like many of my pieces reflects my continued desire to be in touch with the spirit of the Universe, the soul of Nature with the voices and conduits being the Eagle and the Wolf. On this one i try to express at the end a hopeful assimilation of me and the Universe.

Sherry: And you succeeded admirably, my friend. I also loved "The Joy of Life and Sleep". Let's take a peek.

joy of life and sleep

that waft of lavender or soft musk,
the sparkle of the dew on grass in
the morning and the lust my heart
and soul doth feel the joy of waking
to life’s ebullient smile


warm golden yellow rises and white cottons
soar along the azure powdered face
shimmering off the mirror ocean blue,
a spectacle bringing life to the jumping
dolphin and spattering of fish while seagulls
call and the osprey talons fill


doth my day begins of Summer’s Spring
while cool wet sand invades the space
between my toes, the southwest winds
blow capturing underneath my eagle wings
so that i may fly amidst the day where
i shall play


from dawn to dusk my soul shall dance
give way to the spirit of the universe
of how things should be where chaos
intermingles with harmony as opposites
and the yin yang intertwines as one


a glitter of stars shall prick the black of night
and tease the moon to smile while the roaring
vocals from white nail rolling fingers of the sea
shall sooth my dreary eyes to close and i will
dream the dreams where my soul shall soon

reap a joy of with souls in that universal sleep

Sherry: The contemplation of that "universal sleep" certainly speaks to those of us making our journeys into aging, my friend. You make it sound most comforting, the union with other souls.

Marco: once again, a running narrative of being in touch with myself intertwined with my surroundings in this mundane existence. i speak to being in touch both in the waking state and in the dream state, which is which i’m not sure. part of the ongoing narrative in most of my writing is being attuned to my coexistence with Nature and other living beings and always aware of my mortality, here.

Sherry: It is that oneness with nature and other beings that draws me to your work, Marco. You wrote a beautiful poem to Roberta on your anniversary this year. I would love to share it, if I may.

you in my eyes


come closer 

look into my eyes you'll see
the jonquils of Spring
a grand old oak tree and
a robin and cardinal flying free


deep inside me you will see

your soul, the beauty of your face
the salient nature of your skin
on your cheeks and gentle kisses
of your lips


take a little more time, look deeper

and you’ll see the tears
when you had pain, when you
felt a loneliness in the gray
of a stormy rain


keep looking inside me you'll notice

love for those scared, those hurting
with the pain of loss for love ones
and a flood of tears, the angst
of aging too soon, the waning of years


my wish is that you will see

when you peer into my eyes,
my love for you never growing old
together your soul and mine residing
with eternity in the oracle of time


* dedicated to my lovely wife on this day of our ninth wedding anniversary and our thirtieth year in each other's embrace

Sherry: Every wife should be so lucky to receive a poem like this! It is lovely, Marco.

Marco: ‘you in my eyes’........ was a combination of both my love and relation with my partner, my wife Roberta, but also with all who look into my eyes. they see and feel what i see and feel trying to incorporate the element of human sensorial. we are all one traversing the best we can this world which provides us with angst and joy, with turmoil and calm, with violence and peace. if we take time to look into each other’s eyes, we all see ourselves in each other without bias of race, ethnicity or gender.

Sherry: The secret to not fearing the "other" is to look into their eyes and see a fellow human. Wonderfully expressed, Marco. Your heart is large.

I would like to draw this wonderful conversation to a close with one of your  beautiful poems, which reveals your compassionate heart so very well.

My Epitaph

do not disdain portrayals of love
nor feign affection
but receive with open arms and heart
Life’s every emanation
for loves they falter
and tend to fade away
Hearts they are broken
are scorned and
cry from day to day
do not fold within
like a flower sleeping
at the end of its season
but like the flower
always leave a little room
to begin again.

Sherry: "Always leave a little room to begin again." Such wise advice. I understand this was one of your first poems. It is remarkable. 

Marco: yes. this one i wrote at a very early age and stage. this encapsulated my being in touch, yet also always realizing the ‘hope’ in this existence.

Sherry: We live in hope. Truly, it is what keeps us going. Is there anything you’d like to say to Poets United?

Marco: i would like to address and explicate my reasons for using lower case vs capitals and lack of appropriate punctuation in everything i write: the lower case is my voice indicating that my words are significant to me and do not require ‘capitalization’ except for deserved (subjective reason) proper names. the lower case signifies my cerebral rationalization and feelings that what i say and write deserve no great attention relative to those that deserve the attention and relative to the importance of the Universe and its truth.

the lack of appropriate application of punctuation is to express the notion that my thoughts and ramblings come without punctuation and also to instigate a discordant feeling on those formalists and traditionalists. this method provides me that sense of no borders, no bounds.

Sherry: I wish I had read this before I edited it all, kiddo. LOL. No worries, I changed it back when I reached this part. I like the humility expressed in using lower case. I had another friend who did that, as a means of staying humble.

Marco: i am so appreciative of all who i have had the fortunes of exchanging our presence with each other. i enjoy this human sharing. i hope it’s mutual.

Sherry: It is, indeed, Marco. We are happy to have you among us, with your large heart and universal vision. Thank you so much for sharing some of your remarkable journey with us today. 

Marco: Gracias, mi amiga

Another inspiring pilgrim, making his way, my friends. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!