Free verse

Photo by reza shayestehpour on Unsplash

Drops placed.
Hanging on a fiery iron stem, without rust, still.

Drops ready to fall.
Life for disparate plants, cultivated or left.

The yellow-chest bird
Is scampering — CIAF, CIAF –
Unconscious and delicate.
Now, proud, he is picking up a leaf, torn and scrunch:
concrete for a safe and joyful nest.
Now he is disappearing: from here I cannot see him any more.
I can see just the mellow and velvet purple of geranium,
-turgid, not warped by the rain, not fallen apart by these
drops of life.

In the room,
of my lifeless world
I watch the world out there…

I took the picture

Always, there is this impending cloud.

I think about the wonder of life,
the nest of the nightingale inside the thorny leaves of the succulent,
the magic of blending in it
to protect that incipient life,
encircled in little and fragile eggs.

I think about that yellow-chest tiny body,
all bloated,
guarding its greatest good.
A sense of life.
I think about a sign of life still dancing, no matter what.

When confusion captivates me
and I would like to rest on a white shore,
like a tired and dizzy whale,
not to think -as my thoughts have no way out
not to feel…

A recipe and a prayer

Photo by Andrew Bui on Unsplash

Socrates believed the aim of every human deed was happiness. Every single one, philosopher, artist, poet, beggar, tried to say, to give, to find their way to be happy, teaching it to others and sharing it with others.

However, more than a genuine definition of happiness, what you need is a path, a definitive one, leading to the hoped outcome. Since, in this temporary journey, we call life, in this string of moment -that maybe we are learning to seize- there is just one question, continuing to spin the mind: How can I be happy…

flash fiction story

Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Today, every inch of the day has been devoted to gratitude.

Since early in the morning while I was starring at my face in the mirror, finding out something outrageous, I was grateful for it. And still, as I went to the kitchen, preparing my breakfast I was grateful for my indecision, for choosing my routinary food (milk, coffee, biscuits), for feeling I was missing something I could not define truly.

Besides, I was grateful even while I was sitting on the chair starting my day with intention, even if the concept was evanescent. But I stood seated. Good girl. I prayed. I meditate. I ruminated plenty of…

Tiziana Arnone

“I write what I couldn’t tell anyone”. writer. poet, observer. Relationship. Parenting. Personal Growth. Enchanted with life. Thin Skin/

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