Liberatore Suffoletta

Rookie - 8 Points (July 2,1948 / Pettorano Sul Gizio, L'Aquila, Abruzzi, Italy)

Canto I (Green Parrots) - Poem by Liberatore Suffoletta

Remembrance of a summer sun
creating morning mist hands coming toward hands,
knowing..each other
as if, before, they were.
we had caressed,
cheeks, necks our waists, our breasts…

Your fragility came soaring upon time upon the swaying leaves, upon dancing morning mist, upon the sad eyed lost wind, with your gentleness, a misty rose. when you put your hand on my chest, wings of a resting dove,
waves of the summer sea Anew, I recognized the color of my soul I saw my death, this summer the color of a stastice
stairway to eternity, years of endless life
hiking upon two oceans tossing stars upon sleepy nights pouring spring rain upon corn fields shipwrecking upon hidden reefs obsolete rusty spikes crowning my head riding upon single track country trains seeking your hand’s touch a delicacy like the skin
of a sweet plum
whose interior I wish to feel, to taste, the moisture that seems to call me.
It was not fate, my love but the trees, flowers, bushes, grass,
stone pebbles of salmons, spawning in joy, in fecund central park ponds,
that introduced you, again,
the proud cherry blossoms revealed your secrets, softness of your breasts
hardness of your heart
two waves that beach
endlessly upon my chest
where like the ocean
they enter their port.

Love, how many forking paths until arriving at another kiss, what tender solitude until your nibbled lips full nectarine mouth,
almond piercing eyes follow the single horizon rolling with rain or sun. In New York, it is autumn. And you and I, love of mine, are together, together this way, from that place that sees with green and brown eyes from that place that tastes with purple tongues of delight from that place which chooses our clothes and our food from that place that knows our minds full of thoughts from that place that beats
in our hearts of lilac stones from that place that knows
that only love matters from that place that feels compassion and grace from that place where autumn meets summer, water evaporates into clouds, lips meet in a kiss,
to be only you,
only I,
my love.

To wait as so many sad stones
Are crushed silently into sand
To think that it takes such roars
to create raw seeds of dry wheat
Some precious stones, rivers carry,
depositing them all in a dark ocean
Which carries them to our coast
crushing them with calm waves.
To think that separated by trains,
planes, apartments, cars, nations
family, friends and thoughts
you and I
have simply to love
them all, and each other
as they bring to us,
confused men
and women,
and the earth,
that ringing
meditation gong
that seeds
and educates
we, green parrots.
Oh, how I love you!

In the early morning, like these,
I want you among my arms,
so they may kiss you, as often
as stars kiss night, sometimes
I want you, as cherry trees
desire spring, at times,
I covet you, your eyelids
your tears, your light feet
as you stroll away smiling.
To think, yes, that I do have you,
to feel, yes, within you, I am lost
asleep in the immense night
within the grandeur of you.
I could write the happiest lines
this morning before your birthday
I could write that I am not with you
that we are close yet distant
that I heard the vastness of night
sing “Happy Birthday” to you
and, that, the song, swept your soul
like infinite waves upon the shore,
and your eyes began shimmering.
Yes, it does matter that you know,
what you may not have heard,
twilight is putting away endless stars
and you are not with me,
another morning and you are not with me
you are my joy and my heartache.
That is all.
From the west, receding night still is singing
in the distance. My soul is happy with you!
My soul shall ever be happy with you!
An image in the mirror looks for you
A chipped fissioned heart beats for you
A blushing sleeping tree sways for you
A cool autumn breeze whispers for you
A seagull morning dips and soars for you
A nascent soul wishes you
Happy Birthday!
May these happy words
fall to your soul
like dew on the grass.
I am not sad
that I have no gift
to bring you
Or that you have other plans
than to be with me,
what does it matter, my love
we could not keep it.
Morning cannot hold on to stars
losing eventually even the moon,
you are not with me.
That is everything.
To your distant spot we all sing.
To your distant spot.
My soul is as content,
As the night making trees whiten.
We are still children,
voices seeking for the wind
to touch someone’s ear.
another one,
she shall be another one,
like before your kisses,
your voice, your soft body,
your infinite eyes,
but, perhaps, I do love you,
love is so brief,
and forgetfulness
takes so long.
Perhaps, in mornings, as this one
if you, had been between my arms,
my soul would be content
with having found you,
and joyful knowing
that we knew love.
These are the happiest words
that I shall ever write.

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Poem Submitted: Monday, December 28, 2009

Poem Edited: Wednesday, December 30, 2009

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