Walking time

All morning long I follow my
shadow; above an anonymous balloon
bursts, white, no strings.
I want to be a peacock,

a synthesis of colours, lily
perfume, music; find a new 
way of seeing.

Kierkegaard eating honey
on a freshly baked roll.
Honey and choices, brave,
that's all. That's all?
Maybe Chopin. 

A walk begins and ends in shadows.
That bus ride across Europe,
those places I never learned to 
pronounce correctly, passionate
cracks of dawn, carry on.

Any day will do, any place.
The smell of yesterday is gone.

Village gods and peace 

The church
bells ring
inside the village

The air is warmed
by coffee scents
that spread like giggling
voices across the sky.

At the end of a steep,
beaten path, towards
the castle, a man sits
on a bench.

Things will get better
as we grow older,
he tells me.

Please, go on,
speak and
I will listen.

A flake 

The first snow
is falling
in between the spaces of this poem -
unknown - in between
a space and my pen
I see the sky.

I fold the sky
into a single word,
one flake - unwritten,
unknown -
a temple with half-
open windows and a fire

Picture in a gallery

I'm not sure how I got here.
I was simply looking for
some peace. 

And then I saw it.
The horizon.
It looked so different.
Not silent,
or distant,
nor mysterious.

I could continue 
immersing my eyes
in its peculiarity -
but it wasn't exactly 
what I had in mind

today. I've spent hours
trying to figure out
where I wanted to be,
what I wanted to see.

And so
here I am,
staring at the
horizon - comparing it
to madness.


Once you begin, 
you follow your 
you go on - 
it's done, 
there appears only 
one way, one decision. 
Maybe it's like gambling 

even when you are sure 
you're going to lose. 
Life is an addiction. 

Yes, I agree. 
I do. 
So much. 
I agree. 

Do it for me. Sing for me, 
undress, hum, be naked, 
live for me - I imagine 
telling people 
who inspire me 
to smile, 

smile and live, 
despair, want - 
do it for me, 
show me your essence, 
your evolving, 
your skies.

Maria Cinanni grew up in Ottawa, Canada and now lives in Umbria, Italy, where she works as an educator. Quasi-hysterical, culturally-insecure Maria writes poetry when she manages to find a pen. 

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