Tiny flower
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!
The moon
The moon is a clandestine maiden of nightthat sits on the stoolof dusky sleepy spirit.
What My Love Do.....
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
My darling, you are
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
Flowers are beauties of the world.They are little joys of earththat make our lives more bright.
A heap of oat flakes
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 POND, THE JAPANESE BRIDGE by Claude Monet and Sal Buttaci
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
Karma Knows
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
Want
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`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 by Claude Monet and Sal Buttaci
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 by Salvatore Buttaci
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
YOUNG WOMAN WITH A VEIL by Auguste Renoir and Salvatore Buttaci
    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 by Edouard Manet and Sal Buttaci
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 by Edouard Manet and Salvatore Buttaci
                                   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
Anger
(c) 2011 by Oana    For years now my unborn son has followed me I don’t need to see him I know he is there He just shows up Been trying to explain to myself and to him certain things He never wants to listen He covers his ears He ignores me He follows me in the most unexpected places Hugging my pillows, hiding behind me when I go on dates Dismissin
YOUNG GIRL BATHING by Auguste Renoir and Salvatore Buttaci
' YOUNG GIRL BATHING: Painting by Auguste Renoir (1890) Poem by Salvatore Buttaci (1994) Not a stitch!   Oh, if ma mere and mon pere could see me now! Their little daughter naked as the day she first saw the light. Let me say Pa Pa would put enough of his belt to me that no artist would ever care to paint me again.   I should tell you I am not a mo
A BOWL OF PLUMS by Jean-Baptiste Simeon Chardin and Sal Buttaci
                          A BOWL OF PLUMS             Painting by Jean-Baptiste Simeon Chardin, 1728;                    Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994     Clarisse was not at the market this morning. What made me think she would be? How many mornings have I walked the dog, battled with him at the leash  because it was not his usual route, a neigh
THE IRONING LADIES (LES REPASSEUSES) by Edgar Degas & Sal Buttaci
                     THE IRONING LADIES (LES REPASSEUSES)   Painting by Edgar Degas, 1884. Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994. "I have had my fill, I tell you! This morning I could have slept at least till noon but Claude up early before the geese, raged in another of his foul-mouthed moods, not finding this or that, blaming me-- Can you imagine, Jean
THE BALCONY by Salvatore Buttaci
THE BALCONY (LE BALCON) BY EDOUARD MANET (1869) Whenever I look at a famous painting, I often wonder what the model was thinking about as he or she tried hard to maintain the pose given by the painter. Pressing concerns? Daily problems? Love gone sour? New-found love? And in a still life who owns the dish of fruit, the bouquet of flowers, the wine
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