With big sack full of sweet giftsfor the little children.Santa Claus is going on the heavenly skissurrounded by fabulous foxes and birds.
Golden autumn eveningis a romantic timeof jocund memories and lovely hopesof summer.
I am going on the pathamong fields.The clear friendly skysmiles to meand I inhale the fragranceof the buckwheat.
I love you, tiny wonderful flower of the arid land.You grow among thorns.The wind scorches youand the heat of the sun is your torment.But you are alive in spite of everythingbecause your aspirations to live nothing can overcome!
Orgasmic highs They capture you Journey to the sun Shoot past the moon And watch you orbit the world I am the eight wonder And this is what my love do Mental telepathy Souls intertwined Caught up in the rapture Hypnotic mind potions You're under my possession Because this is what my love do Just watch as I lick my lips They whisper the words That i
You are a charming wild flowergrowing in the crevice of old mountain.You are beautiful rosein the valley of dreams.You are sweet mysteryand open truth.
Flowers are beauties of the world.They are little joys of earththat make our lives more bright.
Doves found a litlle heap of oat flakeson the street.They enjoyed taste of their godsendand expected no rivals for the food.The happiness of birds was noticedby hungry Child and Mother.They chased the feathered creatures awayand took their food.
THE LILY PAD, THE JAPANESE BRIDGE Painting by Claude Monet (1899); Poem by Sal Buttaci (1994) Who could imagine what Monet was thinking when he took his brush to this! Ask him what inspired him and he will no doubt lie, say "The Japanese Bridge" or "The lily pond: the way the lilies sit on the brown river" or "The mood I was in, the feeling I h
Liives mesh In wondrous ways Connnections and concationations Sharing and caring Time tossed. To return to innocence One and seperate Together and apart Lives interconnecting Always evolving.and always With heart
In the darkness of despair, The selfish want more than their share. You have yours but where is mine? By themselves in space and time. A love is more than they can bear, Alone again with none to share. If only they could own the sky; Would this fill the hole inside? Want is never satisfied. Want will keep the pain inside. Want will drive the mi
I`m stuck in here! I cannot move or think… My feet won`t walk… I can see but it`s only me. I can`t get out! It`s dark and cold and I can`t feel words… Pain crawls around inside… There’s nowhere to hide! I`m trapped in here! Can anyone see what I see? Or is it just me? Everything is heavy and moving slow--can I go? I`m chained and I can`t move
THE CART: THE ROAD UNDER SNOW IN HONFLEUR Painting by Claude Monet, 1865; Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994 The road under snow we ought best not to complain about! Yet we do so every winter, don't we? You say the jostling ride hurts your back or the old horse is too slow or that I see so poorly I cannot avoid the rocks jutting in our path. As for
BIG JOE HAMMER DR0VE THIS CAR BUT THE HAT HE WORE ON HIS HEAD Yuh want my real name or duh one duh guys gimme back on Grand Street when I wuz twelve or doiteen? My mudder give me names long as yuh arm! "Where dja dig 'em up?" I used tuh tease de ol‘ lady.. Back in a Ol' Country––Sicily––dey han’ out names like candy: da more da sweeta. Dey name
Painting by Auguste Renoir, 1876 Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994 This is not the veil I had hoped to wear. You can take that for the God-honest truth! This one is black; the other was white. This is today: a time for mourning. That was long ago. How do you explain a life? Mine, that is. One summer the earth revolved around the two of us. W
STEMS OF WHITE PEONIES AND PRUNING SHEARS Painting by Edouard Manet (1864) Poem by Salvatore Buttaci (1994) We play the game sometimes of divining the alter egos of your garden flowers: What they resembled on their tall green stems, what they might have been if only they could have decided for themselves in the pre-garden before they were seeds,
BERTHE MORISOT Painting by Edouard Manet (1873) Poem by Salvatore Buttaci (1994) "Too much yellow!" I tell the painter. "You've made me out to appear some pasty-looking, half-dead matron who has never seen the sun! Devotees of art one day will stand before this canvas
