Ekphrastic Poetry
written may of 2023 from Orvieto, Italy
Umbrian Sunshowers
Umbrian Sun-showers
On the cliff-side brick ledge
I sit—legs dangling
sun blazing my skin
scratched by the
wall’s warm
jagged edge
Down in the valley, trains crawl
north like red centipedes
disappearing in a distant blue haze
between the hills. Birdsong echoes
bouncing between valley walls,
velvet and verdant
Elderberry petals glitter
in the light, the devil beats
his wife in May—filling
the atmosphere with her sweet
fragrant breeze
heightened by sun-shower seas
Cumulonimbus clouds cut
the horizon, backlit
by a sapphire sun.
Outlined in gold, this cotton blanket
draws close—heavy
with rain it comes
Cypress trees
trailing the hills sway,
unafraid, hands clapping
in round-of-applause,
drum-rolling thunders call
a friendly warning for cover
And then, a butterfly comes
and rests upon my knee;
casting a small shadow
with his wing; such peace,
before catching the wind
In retreat, I breathe;
Because the trees
dance, the trains
crawl, the swallows
surf, the pigeons
brawl, the pollen
lifts, the blossoms
fly, the butterfly
sits, the clouds
cry
As raindrops blur ink
on my page;
As sunshine is met
by the rain.
Searching for Seaglass
Minehead, Somersetshire, c. 1820
Turner
I miss the sea—how the sweet, salty air
gently kisses my cheek.
I miss the sand—wandering, searching
for sea glass to hold in my hands;
earthy greens and browns
washed up by the tide. Still,
I’m searching for blue
as rare as your eyes
remembering Turner’s painting of a man
and his wife, on the shores
of a bay beneath a satin gold sky.
She looks at the mountains, but
he looks at his bride. With the distant
deep blue, the gold sands harmonize.
Light peaks through the trees
where they picnic beneath, gazing
over the bay, mountains nearly
embrace. No more waiting for love,
they’ve waited their time—
as the painter was patient
for this painting to dry. And I,
like the bride on this bay,
I miss you—I miss the salt in the sea
and the blue in your eyes. But must patiently wait
for these dreams to collide. It all feels
familiar, a memory yet made,
when we’re searching for sea glass
on the shores of the bay.
Grief at an Etruscan
Archaeology Museum
For Nani
An earthen vessel stands
behind gallery glass–cracked
and broken–hardly holding
itself intact as hordes of people
storm through. Their insensitivity
cracks me too; as I was,
clothed in black by your bed:
brittle and vulnerable;
left behind with your rubble;
rattle still ringing; empty fragments
of a life once lived.
Piece by severed piece, I sifted, before
they placed me on a shelf behind glass
to be passed by with pity condolences.
I want to tell those storming to
quiet their noise–one tap
of the glass sends my composure
crumbling. But I too can’t stop
storming, shouting, beating my chest,
holding myself together as I crumble
the dirt back over you.