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Late Sunday Late Evening Et Alii Et Cetera - The Poem ~ by John Jay Anthony Licata ~ Poet ~ Artist ~ Sculptor ~ Troubadour

~ Late Sunday Late Evening Et Alii Et Cetera ~

Late Sunday Afternoon /
On a chair in the backyard /
Leaned up against the garage, /
Facing my vegetable garden, /
With glass of wine in hand /
Listening to the opera loud /
And Italian,
The opera Pagliacci
Old Caruso record
Aria - Vesta la Guiba
Drinking the wine and tears
Of lost love
And sweet remembrance
Of children wished to have had
Of pictures long ago,
In gray shades of sad
For that great love never shared
And the destiny and fate
That never cared.
Still in daydreams
I walked with her
And sang to her
And yet this
Is how I fared ...

Too soon after Sunday morning ...

~  Sunday Sabbath Morning  ~

 Love and lust,
The oil and water of our lives
Tho some Sunday Mornings
They flow unto one another
With the Sabbath confluency
Of the river’s rush
And against a gentle moment’s hush
The heart finds peace
While the body’s flame
Is rich and lush...

For one might see
In the passing by thus ...

Amongst The Moons
And the seasons of our lives
When time has swept us up
And swept us along
Like leaves in a cyclone,
We will have wept
And wished we’d kept
Time dust in our pockets,
Hearts and lockets.

For in too many moons
That have circled us by,
We will have drawn
The breath and sigh
Of memory and memoir
And cloud climbers in the sky...

For I meant to return
But lent the moment
To mere moon-watching
And wonderment
And wanderment
In quests of coming home
To the Camelot we knew
Where on whispering breezes
Lovers’ wishes hush through.

For now i see,
What once,
Had only written ...

 ~ Time Dancing the Sixties ~

Hearts and souls
Land-locked in the decade
Of Camelot and flowers
Of war and powers,
And crossing Golden Gate
Into unforeseen lands
And the mystic Francisco
Of sweet youth dreams
And visions of the present
Thinking it the future
Great love that it became
Too soon, too late
And entwined and waltzed about
In the cruel juxtapose
Of time dances,
Betwixt the slip away
Loss of love
From the grasp
To below the conscience
Of thirty-yeared depths
And the metaphysics of
Oceans of university campuses,
Triple decades and howlings
At the many moons ago.

And so in
Remembering her...

 

In the quest for love,
Being supercilious is tedious;
Hopefully, by middle journey
We have become aware
That affluence, title and prestige
Will not open heaven's gate,
Secure immortality
Or fill in our last chapters
With a great love.

We start out as children
And end up much like children;
In between it's mostly puff and veneer
With but the patina of our altruism
And humanism remaining,
That we have been able to mount
In our less than ideal lives,
lived out in a less than perfect world.

 
Therefore i have quested ...

To glimpse the colors
Of love in Autumn
And find the lodestone of the heart
As glinted in the midst of Winter
And reflected in your eyes,
Before I pass this place
And have this joy to brace me
In the shifting sands
Of timeless space...

 And penned these lines ...

Centuries ago,
We pressed together,
Shoulder to shoulder
And ran the rivers of Diaspora,
When the Inquisition came to Spain.

And from pogroms of pain,
My Tuscan soul
Knew not the wet
Of tears from rain,
For as fearful lovers
We ran the rivers
To the Mediterranean,
Yet bid goodbye
Your fathers
To the coasts of Africa
And mine to Corsica,
Where brilliant white,
The Trumpeter Swan
Against the bluest sky,
Called out to Abraham
And freedom's cry
And promised us
We'd meet again,
If only hundreds of years
Of wingbeats
And heartbeats later,
When the kismet birds of destiny
Circle with the Trumpeter
Above the clouds
In a windswept heaven 
Over Seattle.

Thus the calling of ...

The Trumpeting Swan ~ calls

 Mournful and sonorous
From the deep dead night
And passes over
In white feathered robed flight.

Mystic bagpiper

Winging silent

Through gathering shards

Of morning light.

 

 Yes, far away and long ago ...

 

 It was forty years ago;

We passed by each other

In Chicago at the train station;

You were with your mother,

Meeting someone who was arriving

And i was on my way to New York

To spend the summer

With my grandmother.

 

We passed by one another so quickly,

But in the shards of a few bits of time,

My eyes caught yours

And it was the beautiful green of yours

That tipped and pivoted me

And spun my heart and self around

And into the many days

And seasons of the future to come

And as i turned to look again for you,

We were gone ...

 

And now,

When i miss the Sun

And search the Stars

A thousand months of moons

From now will always speak the same

As i hear the Trumpeting Swan

For evermore calling your name ...

 

~ Van Gogh Sun ~

 

 Without you

What of this coming day

Without you

To walk my way

 

There will be no sun

As Van Gogh saw

Only Wheat fields gloomed

With the Blackbirds caw

 

Nor stars to shine

Sans winds to blow

For this, a love lost 

For all to know...

 

( "Wheat Fields With Crows" -

Painted 1890 by Vincent Van Gogh

Dutch 1853-1890 )

 

Mea Coda

 From Fire

To Steel

To Sculpture

To Rust.

 

From Dust

To Poet

To Dust.