Condensed Songs

You couldn’t care less for drunkenness from booze:
you’re tipsy from fresh air – intoxicant you choose.

The kisses that return as ghosts aren’t wanted:
much more than any house, a heart is haunted.

You needn’t live in fear of being shattered:
like seeds from pods, everyone is scattered.

You’re sad your conscience isn’t pure. At least
you have a conscience since you aren’t a beast.

When I was lost, the forest didn’t find me,
but if I forget the way, it could remind me.

A century passed away. Its corpse looked bleak,
but you felt hope in songs from a thrush’s beak.

Like a beautiful melody, a picture poser
reminds me the cosmos has a composer.

Inspired by 1) Emily Dickinson, I taste a liquor never brewed 2) Carl Sandburg, Kisses, Can You Come Back Like Ghosts? 3) Richard Wilbur, Two Voices In A Meadow 4) Wislawa Szymborska, In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself  5) David Wagoner, Lost 6) Thomas Hardy, The Darkling Thrush 7) W.H. Auden, The Composer

Mario A. Pita

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Choir Reveries

The men sing lower and the women higher:
we range from earth to heaven in the choir.

“Does God exist and love us?” you inquire.
I answer – singing – with a church’s choir.

We’ll die, our prospects evidently dire,
but we affirm life’s triumph in a choir.

As current for a light flows through a wire,
a melody’s delight flows through the choir.
Boston Angel

A soul is clothed in flesh, and that attire
is woven by the one praised by the choir.
DSC_0426 2

Though discord forces globally conspire,
may harmonies prevail – as in the choir.
Somerville Angel

We don’t live for possessions we acquire
but for the Love we’re praising in a choir.

Mario A. Pita

Inspired by the choir of Saint John The Evangelist, Cambridge, MA

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Endearing Wonders

Sparks at night shot from my black cat’s paws,
small lightnings with a blanket-plucking cause.

On summer nights – without a need for tickets –
it’s sweet attending concerts played by crickets.
Cricket Concert

Obliged to walk the dog in snow at night,
deep beauty mitigates a cold wind’s bite.

From charted data we may learn a lot,
but there are truths we can never plot.

They are priceless – sparrows shattering my sleep,
outside the window chirping, “cheap, cheap, cheap.”

Your loveliness eludes all adjectives,
like waterfalls can’t be held in sieves.

Splendor beyond myself can humble me:
among resplendent blooms, a bumble bee.

Mario A. Pita

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A camera won’t focus on its lens
but on the world beyond it being shot
as you don’t focus on yourself but cleanse
your mind to clear transparency of thought.
You focus on what cameras can’t capture,
the source of all creation and our rapture.

Anima Camera

Mario A. Pita

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Monochrome Dreams

The businesses in town seemed mundane, mostly,
then sunlit glass formed gowns appearing ghostly.
Spirit Garments

Our paths are singular or they are joint,
but all are going to the vanishing point.
Man Approaching the Vanishing Point

Transmitted from our hearts or from church spires,
our prayers stream to You as though through wires.
Prayer Wires

My grandmother was first to reach the light.
My grandfather was next to pass from sight.

As melancholy loads us with its weights,
we can’t imagine then what bliss awaits.

The sculpture made of rock can’t be a star
the way that you, my rock star sibling, are.
Paris Lourdes

You cultivate your heart, soul soil field,
so love can be the crop that it will yield.

As sunlight weaves in fences, scenes are clad
in patterns, like a skirt’s, crisscrossing, plaid.
Boston Station

We want to stay on track with plans yet know,
beyond the one-track mind, tall feelings grow.

You beckon us, Abuelo, right hand raised,
serenely to the Love through ages praised.

Mario A. Pita

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Prayer Sprouts

As words, when read aloud, escape a paper,
your spirit surges from your flesh in prayer.

The future’s face is covered with a veil.
May goodness escalate and love prevail.

Our bodies are of stuff the Earth recycles,
but we hope to endure as Love’s disciples.

You cleansed a soul that had been full of vermin
but did so through your love, not with a sermon.

Within a dream, no load too much to carry,
disguised as lady bug, you raised me, Mary.

Varied stories that we clothe You with
help us to see, but You are not a myth.

May I awake within Your arms, O Lord,
from life, a dream, adoring and adored.

Mario A. Pita

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Image Marriages – 8

We’ve added to suffering. Let’s subtract.
There’s mathematics with our every act.

A building clothed in vines has charm for me:
our harming of Earth could turn to harmony.

Significance is not just scaled in size:
the universe is vast, but you are wise.

As you breathe music, full of sentiment,
you are—at any age—Love’s instrument.

They do their work but not in business suits,
probing through the dirt for moisture, roots.

We see ourselves as separate yet know
as foliage from the tree of life we grow.

From dust of stars, our bodies coalesce.
Differently than them, we shine no less.

The senses can’t perceive where the spirit goes
like you can’t hear a symphony with your nose.

Your beauty hasn’t launched a thousand ships
but has been sipped in glances, countless sips.

Mario A. Pita

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