anime in comune

attraverso il cielo

gli anni

le miglia

di un grande divario

senza dire

ma sapendo

percepire il legame

che solo alcuni vedrà

attraverso un paese

un continente

un oceano

anime alla ricerca

senza contatto

abbracciare

o sussurro

ancora una vicinanza

attraverso il silenzio

il buio

le ombre

sconosciuto

sogni simili

illuminare un granello di universo

un guizzo candela

un'immagine speculare

uno spirito affine

o due in una vita

trovare un terreno comune

sinfonie intercambiabili

canzoni cantate all'unisono

le risposte alle domande

nessuno ha chiesto

altro déjà vu di una coincidenza

o la memoria

un sogno ad occhi aperti

attraverso l'ignoto distesa di meraviglia

l'eco di un pensiero inespresso

il riflesso di un arcobaleno invisibile

insondabile per tutti

ma le anime in comune

Barry DeCarli

23 luglio 2015 rivisto

Su Hammond Pond, Goshen, MA

© 2015 Barry DeCarli

building walls

for Steve Byrne

sometimes

we build walls against the hurt

mounting up inside

as we trade our dismissed

worry for anger and pain

even as we try to hold back a flood

of obsession that wells up again and again

we don’t know what

our last act in life might be

or if anyone will understand

what we've left behind

or care

as our anguish grows

we add another block

to another row

until finally

we see nothing

but the wall that holds us in

Barry DeCarli

July 11, 2015

On Hammond Pond, Goshen, MA

©2015 Barry DeCarli

two thoughts

I.

no shimmering of wings

no light waking

no ripples on the shore

no avian symphony

what is lost

in this dark stillness

in this unhopeful silence

II.

sometimes it’s easier

to stop looking

for something lost

to forget

it might be there

close by

just under the moist

matted leaves

Barry DeCarli

July 3, 2015

On Hammond Pond, Goshen, MA

©2015 Barry DeCarli

Charleston’s pain

aujourd’hui

je suis afro-américain

je suis Mère Emanuel

once again I am a citizen of the Holy City

today I call on myself to see

a deeper heritage

an ancient ancestry of humanity

where we all began the struggle

the pain that many have yet

to overcome

today I call on myself to see

into the hearts of the innocent

into their souls

into their suffering

even so

I know that door will stay shut

until we are willing to open it

though my own white skin will not turn black, today

I am African-American

I am Mother Emanuel

Barry DeCarli

June 19, 2015

On Hammond Pond, Goshen, MA

©2015 Barry DeCarli

breakdown

tears

shattering a stone face

carving canyons of crying

to the sea

savage scars streaking the sky

reflections suspended in the black

silver gods casting curses

screaming witches

slaying the stars

one by one

Barry DeCarli

(written sometime, somewhere in the 1970s)

Revised on April 3, 2015

©Barry DeCarli

taking steps in a stranger’s shoes

wondering whose shoes caked 

with pain or sorrow

he must lace up tomorrow

where that mile will take him

the burden is his to carry

millstone or milestone

albatross or golden fleece

a heavy talisman that does not

ward off but accepts

even a stranger’s feelings

the anguish, the dread

of someone’s sadness

who will never know

what makes him care

what presses him forward

blessing or curse

gravity or grace

Barry DeCarli

February 17-25, 2015

On Hammond Pond, Goshen, MA

©2015 Barry DeCarli

heritage

questions of potential

haunt the mourners of this boy

Snowflake Bentley's namesake

could he have produced paintings

that might hang in the museum of art

or design an airport internationale

a peaceful bridge too far

a launch pad to the milky way

who knows, could he have hit 800 home runs

after all, he was so much younger than Shelley

when the water pulled him under

what about such prolific possibility

Shakespeare

Lennon and McCartney

Solzhenitsyn

Marco Polo or Stephen Hawking

why question genius

while we hold the proof in our hands

maybe, to let us off the hook

so we could say

no one could have done all that

what could my father have done

had life been different

had his desire raged at another god

had his muse spoken with more promise

but he did not waste his life being who he was

he did what he could

no manuscripts, no tome to show his wisdom

no invention to ease our burden

no compound to ease our pain

no perfect poem

 (just three good sons)

here we are

this soup of genetics

different hopes, fears

and dreams

he left behind

lives lived with his imprint on our souls

that is no small thing

Barry DeCarli

March 05, 2010

Revised June 17, 2011 & March 7, 2013, August 1, 2014

Copyright 2010 Barry DeCarli