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.

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