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Uk.jpg (1708 byte) We are waiting for your poems... Uk.jpg (1708 byte)







Tomorrow can be the last day of your life.
What can you say to the world
Before leaving into the longest night?
Have you been always with life satisfied?
Have you tried to do best –
What you could’ve or might?
Have you enjoyed the people you met?
Have found the key to the precious moment,
When your soul & body become happy & fine?!
When the stars all shining at you from the sky?!
When your mind is open to perceive Universe?!
When you don’t say “damn”, “curse” or worse?!
When transparent air, silence, the light
Give you new reason to live & you might
Start a new life – full of love & compassion,
Feeling happy inside, always being so anxious
To help all those who are near to you,
To say to someone close in time
                                             I love you….


                                             Olga Ryazantseva WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN







Life is coy
Sometimes it wraps you up completely
Not giving space to move
And sometimes
It lets you loose to flow
Without direction
Aimlessly, even

For now
It carries me
Like a baby that needs
And the ability to learn to trust

And I do


                                                              Nana Hietanen WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN






A most relaxing spot,
the swings stood left
forward north
of the sliding board.

Here, boys idly swinging,
liked to talk
simply pass the time
in watching boys nearby
play mumble-peg
games they played with pocket knives.

On the swings,
a boy, sorting out his thoughts,
could center
feel God's tender love
descend from the Heavens above.

While on a swng one day,
I heard a crack:
My voice had changed
from a higher
to a lower register.

                                             Virgil Gelormino WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN






The keys' thgrill raising
feverish wall against
the night's stillness,
ardent focus among the
shadows - a smile.
Your wavy gait,
your pace wounded by the
roughness of the carpet and
the whispered word,
strange cuttings up that my disquiet

                                          Radu Barbulescu WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN






Comes a naked moon
silver glisten,
phantom shore
half hearted
fade like
in the dunes
worn away
beneath a swirling tide
of illusion

scented breath of passion
blows a salted dream
misting my face
with soft promises

as aloof Saguaro tilt
like tall ships
on the horizon, I squint
to spy the future,
and wonder
if you wait for me

that eternity
be more than just tomorrow
don’t loan me your heart
trust must be earned
not borrowed

as the sun blazes
longer, my days of isolation
be the oasis in my desert
soothe these shifting sands of love

                                         January Grey WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN





I lonely walk by the streets.
I nothing see around me.
Rain softly fall on my body,
and the wind blows pushing me for the destiny.
So I leave to my dreams
and you by me smiling reach my hands.
We walked hand in hand, clothes glued to the body.
We don't wish to shelter us from the rain.
we only wish to run under her.
We don't want to go to any place.
We stopped.
Eyes in the eyes and our mouths meet.
The rain is going to end
and the last drops steal the my dreams .
Now my hands reach the empty,
my eyes lost you to the infinite,
But my smile! It continues.
The tomorrow will be a new day
for that passion that warm the my love dreams.

                                      Therezinha de Jesus Iane WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN




Thoughts of you carry me through space
where mysteries flow in waterfalls
and love warms my heart
like sunshine beams

I am with you in spirit and wishes
surfing loves wonders in glides
aching for touches
that sing to me

Longing for nightfall's freedom
to be with you in abandon
closing all doors
but one

Love calls to me across time
as cattle call in the meadow
singing sweet clover songs
of tomorrow's promises.

                      Sylvia S.Spivey WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN





The sliding board,
beside the swings,
near the grove of trees,
where S.V.O. boys
liked to be,
always was a high for me.

Up one rung,
and then another,
and another,
one after the other,
until it seemed
I reached the sky.

Excitement peaked,
when I could see,
St. Vincent's far off red brick wall,
and know that I stood higher
than this wall,
so formidable to me.

Then, with a "swish",
I'd meet the ground.

                Virgil Gelormino WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN




Italy.jpg (930 byte) LE CAMPANE DI EDIMBURGO

The Bells of Edimburg:
I hear again their echoes "ding-dong",
as the festive crowd fills again the square,
the sun bathes in a sky of blue.

The Bells of Edimburg:
break my doubts of crystal,
returning form and color
to my childhood dreams,
as in the prettiest painting of Renoir,
where the blue conceals the black.

Bells of Edimburg,
the wind spreads your joyful sound
throughout the region
even bears it to the edge
of a rocky reef
that speaks to the sea:

whispering words,
from the wind to the waters,
which only those can hear
who stand in the silence
of their hearts.

            Roberto Pelliccetti WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN

( Translator: Virgil Gelormino )



Italy.jpg (930 byte) DUE VECCHI

With hands,
knotty and crossed,
their faces,
furrowed by laughter
their glances,
reflecting souls now nude,
their words,
sighful and passionate,
distant and vibrant,
they breathe in an oasis
of shadows and silence.

Lost in their own fears,
they gropingly step
through blinding worlds
toward their final union.

                      Gilda Iengo WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN

                      ( Translated by Virgil Gelormino )




stern and severe,
her strap, at the ready,
Sister Conradine was nun in charge
of the boys' dormitory
at St. Vincent's Orphanage.

Up through a strict Teutonic rearing
in her native Germany,
repressive force was her choice
for keeping orphan boys
compliant with the rules.

At bedtime,
silence was the rule.
Those who broke it
had to "kneel out"
on the hallway hardwood floor.

One day,
in the hallway,
Sister Conradine motioned for a boy,
just transferred to St. Vincent's
from St. Ann's Infant Home,
to try on several items
of donated clothing
which lay in piles
on two long tables,
one at each side of the entranceway
to the dorm.

The six year old,
slow and awkward,
anger flashed across the sister's face.

The boy,
his bowels filled his drawers.

Sister Conradine,
grabbed the boy
clamped his head
between her knees.

And as her brown Franciscan habit,
enveloped the lad in darkness,
Sister Conradine, strap in hand,
gave a stinging whipping
to the crying boy.

             Virgil Gelormino WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN





Among house-tops
first snow flakes were pirouetting,
at three,
casually sailed in crowd of black helmets
unfolding the desolaton of an immense carpark,
circled headlights of cars
on our faces expelling inner peace,
we stopped at a newsagent¹s
to read the latest weather forecasts,
like an elk trapped in traffic
all waited for the ineluctable turn of the wheel,
slumped in front of a revolving stage
to watch the Wagnarian opera.

                             Dipak Mazumdar WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN




                SISTER CARISTA


a cheerful peasant woman
in her middle years
from Germany,
Sister Carista was nun in charge
of the vegetable cellar
at St. Vincent's Orphanage.

Her back ever bent in labor,
the children often saw her
tending to barrels of sauerkraut,
the pungent odor of which,
filled their nostrils,
as they crossed her cellar
on their way to meals
on rainy days.

In very broken English,
she showed her orphan help
how to clean and pare
the vegetables and fruit
that arrived from donors
to her cellar door.

When in the nearly daily task
of making sauerkraut,
more cabbage need be shred,
she'd motion to a boy and say:
"Turn vonce agin das vwheel!"
Turn vonce agin das vwheel!"

But the words most often heard:
"Zee zoo. Zee zoo", meaning "See so",
caused her to be known
among the boys
as Zee Zoo.

Whether working in the cellar
in the vegetable garden
on the entrance grounds,
she always found an interlude
in the afternoon
to visit with her Eucharistic Lord.
And children passing by
the chapel door,
often found her
rapt in fervent prayer.

with hands outstretched
eyes fixed on the tabernacle,
her face shone
like a mystic from of old.

And now in summer,
I was back in Columbus
to visit my old home.
Twelve years had passed
since last I stepped
through her cellar door.

Overjoyed to see me,
her face was beaming.
With hands from produce dirty,
she brought her hand
beneath her habit
to shake my own.

Her hand,
leathery and calloused,
seemed a man's.

Her personality,
I believed
I had looked
into the eyes of a saint.

                                  Virgil Gelormino WB01345_.gif (616 byte)RETURN