Image Marriages – 7

When wind made clouds far overhead a heart,
you witnessed – stunned – a stratospheric art.
Cirrus Heart

Through life, we learn to heed the vital signs;
a breath, a beat, a meaning between the lines.

A rose can’t grow from a dandelion seed,
but a plant will never think itself a weed.

Exuberant, abstract, expressionistic limbs,
meander, scribbles, at the breezes’ whims.

We may declare our minds are open, but
what’s the good of that if hearts are shut?
Incongruous Message

The sun just shines and doesn’t have to preach
for trees to strive toward it though out of reach.

Mountain slopes, if looked at properly,
become a woman – no one’s property.
Summit Romance

Mario A. Pita

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Image Marriages – 6

This loveliness intoxicates like liquors:
eclipsed by foliage, the sunlight flickers.

As we wash dishes, time swirls down the drain,
unless we’re mindful, then nothing is mundane.

Each time I point, the dog looks at my hand.
The point of pointing he doesn’t understand.
Canine Chiaroscuro

While birds declare with songs their territory,
the ways of men, in contrast, have been gory.

In you – behind the flesh and bone facade –
an unseen essence shines – the face of God.

What do we achieve by way of worry?
It makes a blizzard out of every flurry.
Blizzard Starlings

Created sacred, wholly holy – you
are blossoming in my field of view.

Mario A. Pita

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Mind Stream

The stream of consciousness poured into a jar,
and you confused that flask with who you are.

Your stream of consciousness may be a drink
for others who can sip the thoughts you think.

When thinking flows to here where I now am,
the stream of consciousness can burst its dam.
Emily Reflecting

The stream of consciousness has giant falls.
Niagra’s are – in contrast – sized for dolls.
Stream of Consciousness 4

We won’t extinguish hate with perennial wars.
We need a stream of consciousness that pours.

The “Stream of Consciousness” is full of names,
and that one first was coined by William James.

Streams of consciousness might freeze or slow,
but Someone’s warmth resuscitates their flow.
The Thaw

Streams of consciousness, things you think,
flow from your pen – transforming into ink.
Boston Swan

The stream of consciousness is not used up
when drops of it spill from your mind, a cup.

The stream of consciousness – what’s its fate?
Flowing into an ocean – that won’t evaporate.

Mario A. Pita

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Piano Mantras

Keys of black and white open me
to realms of multicolored melody.
Piano Mantras - 1

Without a match, a pianist lights a fire,
a sonic blaze which needs no amplifier.
Piano Mantras - 2

Sheet musical notes, eggs of black and white,
hatch when played, from fingers taking flight.
Piano Mantras - 3

That melody in your mind is solely mental,
but you can play and make it instrumental.
Piano Mantras - 4

Chopin had it right– at times the singers
are not our voices but our supple fingers.*
Piano Mantras - 5

Beginner at the piano – excited and humble –
like children learning to walk, fingers stumble.
Piano Mantras - 6

Wordlessly, whole worlds can be relayed
as music landscapes from a piano played.
Piano Mantras - 7

A pianist presses, a guitarist plucks and strums;
through countless ways a beautiful music comes.
Piano Mantras - 8

You have to turn some keys to unlock doors,
but other keys are touched and music pours.
Piano Mantras - 9

Infinities incarnate, sensationally expressed
in touch as when a piano’s keys are pressed.
Piano Mantras - 10

Mario A. Pita

* See Manuscript in Dreams: A Study of Chopin by Juana Rosa Pita

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Inner Scenes – 1

Three billion words were published in a tome,
to me a holy, cellular scripture – your genome.
Chromosomal Playground

We each will see truth from a different angle,
but points of view converge around an angel.
January Vertigo

Grand bridges stretch across wide waters for us,
like one between a love song’s verse and chorus.
Treble Bridge

We want extremes – a freezer and a toaster,
life’s ups and downs – a dusk roller coaster.
Twilight Rollercoaster

Iambs, trochees, spondees, pyrrhics, dactyls…
prosodic feet, for me, are wonderful shackles.
Poetic Feet

Before it was chopped down, this gorgeous tree
held concerts played by wind and birds for free.
Treble Tree

Those physicists think all is made of strings.
Like music from guitars the cosmos springs.
Cosmic Music

The barking dogmas which surround us now
ignore that truth might be more like a meow.
Feline Vision

Mario A. Pita

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Image Marriages – 5

A streetlamp hanging from its stem turns on,
consoling a sunflower when the sun has gone.
Nocturnal Sun

Yes, doves are a symbol of Spirit in some religions,
but their cousins are no less holy – scruffy pigeons.
Boston Peace

The last to dangle from the stems, a berry
swells, ripening and whole though solitary.
Berry Lonely

Exposed to rains and locked for lack of trust,
embraces – like a chain link fence – can rust.
A Rusty Embrace

A train of thought may be derailed by folly,
but you can catch another, neuronal trolley.
Green Line Twilight

Wind will often make its small leaves rustle,
but it’s rare to see a willow flexing its muscle.
Willow Muscle

Your peace amidst the world’s pervasive fuss,
like berries in snow, is gorgeously incongruous.
Gorgeously Incongruous

A snowstorm didn’t stab the air with icicles
but mummified a pair of locked up bicycles.
Bicycle Couple

We hope for beautiful endings – a leaf suceeds
as reds and yellows spread and green recedes.
Autumn Emblem

You float up towards the ceiling, light as steam,
and shut your eyes – to have a doorway dream.
Doorway Dreaming

Mario A. Pita

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Image Marriages – 4

My mind has rippled with thinking of all that I lack
but stills like an ocean at twilight caressing a kayak.

Branches sometimes snag a wind-blown kite
and apparently snare as well a plane in flight.

Vines climb a wall expressively – graffiti
that is drawn to light as if by art or deity.

Might we, earthly people, of varied shades and sizes,
be otherworldly beings in skin-tight, flesh disguises?

“Though infernal dry spells have attacked us,
we flourish, growing sinuously, like a cactus.”

You may be terrified of spiders, yet
you love a web, the playground net.
Playground Arachne

Finding adventurous fun, even in a mesh,
with playfulness you see the world afresh.

You are called a weed. That is a great offense
to you, lovely dandelion, entangled in a fence.

“My limbs, when they are cut or if they snap,
bleed just like yours, except my blood is sap.”

Just when an asphalt lot looked lifeless, stark,
I discovered you growing, shaping a living arc.

Happiness turns luminous despite challenges piling:
delight shines from your faces through your smiling.

Mario A. Pita

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