POETRY I

Birth home in Fuente Vaqueros

Pietro Grieco ©2010

The entrance of the house was guarded

By two blue orange trees with their ancient

Oriental scent expanded in Spain by the Moors

That same fragrance he carried embroidered

Over his eyelashes. Behind white walls from

A picture on the living room wall he sees

The piano longing for his fingers, his songs, his laughs

From the cradle he watched suns

Dangling from a luminous green dark tree

From it descended the drunken aroma

Nourishing him as his mother ́s milk

If that atmosphere touches your lips

If you can breathe that poetical air

You can discover between the verses

Orange blossoms azahares impregnating

The poems of Federico García Lorca.

Water remains in the well of the patio

With its pulley-wheel and the bucket

To extract from the bottom of his

Granada’s earth the fire and inspiration

On those wings still now fly and live

The breath Federico García Lorca.

If one day you visit this two store house

Be sure to steal a chunk of music

And some verses

I know by experience

Picking an orange from his patio

His soul is still warm in my pocket.

Café Aroma

Pietro Grieco © 2006

Sweet born the tremolo from a wooden guitar

Flying with the birds

among faithful tall pines

a Saturday morning

filtered rays of light

marauded over sleepy eyes.

Frank and his girls danced

around smiling cappuccinos

and fragrance of warm scones

Even with other daily delights

Didn’t break the moment

When suppressed were our hearts

By melodies sweet so sweet

We could let silence

Cry

On the amethyst air

of a joyful Idyllwild.

Lost in the moment probably

I missed Lao Tzu

and many Buddhas passing by.

Was it a moonlight ray

striking the kitchen one night

why dishes coming out

to have had an alchemy of madness and delight?

The arpegiator closed his eyes

and when we closed ours

the world’s rhyme vanished

in ascending notes blending

with the scent of the pines.

What Could I do? Life

life was happening there

while Blanchette’s hand

was caressing mine.

This is the danger to be lost in

an amethyst morning in Idyllwild

you can miss Lao Tzu

and many Buddhas passing by.

Ah, but they wouldn’t mind!

POETRY