Vision Feast

for Amy

Your sense of sight is good, but you don’t see
your beauty that for others is so clear,
your awesomeness that’s obvious to me
and evident to all who hold you dear.
Your look reflects your personality,
like stars in water bodies can appear,
reflected from a source that’s heavenly,
a lovely sight that blesses any seer.
Though surfaces can’t show a depth of sea,
your choice of clothes, your hair curls, your head gear,
and eye glitters, combine delightfully,
expressing deep uniqueness to all near.
Your face you couldn’t face, I recognize
as beautiful to souls as well as eyes.

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Mario A. Pita

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Vocal Distillations

For Azita

*

Like floral scents are bottled for perfume,
your voice is bottled up when it’s recorded,
and though it be compressed without much room,
it may, as though an airliner, be boarded,
for when I listen to it I can fly,
although the flights aren’t literal but real,
within my mind while I sit down or lie,
not through the firmament but what I feel.
So just like petal scents can fill a bottle,
please record your voice for me to hear,
so as when airplane engines reach full throttle,
by way of it, I reach the stratosphere:
there’s just a bit of air within your sigh,
yet it’s as though that air could fill the sky.

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*

If I could hear my soul as though a voice,
I long have felt that voice would sound like yours,
and that’s a reason often I rejoice
when via satellite your speaking pours
in my receptive ear from where you are,
relayed through wires stretched from pole to pole,
or through the air in which it journeys far,
yet seems to me the voice of my own soul.
Your voice in reaching me from far away
through magic that’s been called technology
gives me a sense that there is too a way
my soul though it feels far can talk to me:
my soul’s unseen, and I can’t have a peek,
but through your voice, I’ve felt that it can speak.

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Mario A. Pita

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Belief Leaves

for Tim (Spuncounterguy)

Beliefs unfurled from us like leaves from trees,
responding to a light and warmth from high,
and we were labelled by the shapes of these,
the differences dividing you and I.
And when cold facts have made beliefs change hue,
we’ve clung like leaves to things that we believe
that nonetheless have fallen as leaves do,
for everything that comes to bloom will leave.
Beliefs may fall and leave us feeling bare,
but light and warmth remain, and in the spring
the bareness we found difficult to bear
could yield to fresh beliefs and flowering.
We’ve fussed about beliefs and which are right,
forgetting what they’re for—the warmth and light.

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Mario A. Pita

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Child of Exiles

In nineteen sixty-three, when I was born,
my parents had just recently been torn
from Cuba which had been their lifelong world
till its descent to tyranny had hurled
vast numbers of the people of that isle
toward a permanent and far exile.
But though my birth occurred in sixty-three
in what’s been called the land of brave and free,
my sister’s birth had been in sixty-two,
and shortly afterward, my parents—who
as Catholics had avoided contraception—
were taken by surprise by my conception.
My mom and dad were poor, but life had worth,
so on the heels of my big sister’s birth,
that which would be me unfurled unthwarted,
since they believed no one should be aborted.
To this I owe the fact that I’m alive,
plus that my dad possessed a hardy drive.
My parents, while they were impoverished,
had one more child than they would have wished.
Already with two girls to bring them joy,
they got what then they lacked, with me, a boy.
Their friends donated blood to pay a fee
although the doctor’s services were free,
and I am thankful to them to this day
who paid for me with blood they gave away.
Although we started out as poor as dirt,
each with not much more than pants and shirt,
the country welcomed many refugees
from man-induced disasters overseas
and helped my family get on its feet
till we ourselves could work to make ends meet,
returning many times the help we got,
still who we were, yet in a melting pot.
Years later, when I’d long since passed the age
my parents were back in that youthful stage,
I’d see as people who had been exiled
from homelands full of violence were reviled,
and parents even were torn from their kids
while seas arose from underneath eyelids.
Exiled from my childhood by years
that haven’t had as much a cause for tears,
I know, despite a life of ample ease,
in some way we will all be refugees,
exiled from our youth, or homes, or health,
or happiness, or way of life, or wealth,
and so I hope that all who flee some hell
are met with open arms and offered help
as were my parents when they were exiled
not long before I had become their child.

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Mario A. Pita
(Part 1 of Pentameter Memoir)

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Nocturnal Singers

for Miriam

When everything that brought you joy looked gone,
and it seemed joy would come your way no more,
you wondered how on Earth you could go on
when misery was all that lay in store,
and unaware of how you could continue,
you tried to take a shortcut to your end
and force what’s left of life to drain from in you
because of wounds that felt too deep to mend.
But I am glad you failed and still are here
to celebrate the blessings life may send,
that sometimes unexpectedly appear;
an unforeseen event, or joy, or friend.
In darkness, we may feel we can’t go on,
but we can sing, like birds, before the dawn.

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Photo: Singer of the band, Mint Green

Mario A. Pita

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Living Motive

for Miriam by way of Emily Dickinson

If she could keep a single heart from breaking,
she knew her life would not have been in vain,
or if she simply quelled another’s aching,
subdued the onslaught of another’s pain.
I’d add it’s wonderful when smiles bloom
from something that we do or sing or say,
so grins or laughter break in someone’s gloom
like through dark clouds might pierce a solar ray.
Such treasures still unguessed can come from you
though you have felt your life is not worthwhile;
another’s pain be eased by what you’ll do,
so that your action blossoms in their smile.
While blood flows to your heart in every vein,
the world from you has got a lot to gain.

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Photo: Drummer of the band, Mint Green

Mario A. Pita

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Kindling

Like trees respond to light with buds that bloom,
I want the kindness anyone shows me,
at times like sunlight puncturing deep gloom,
to blossom from my thankfulness and be
a deed that will unfurl like petals do
on branches, colorful and fragrantly,
so though it’s short-lived like the morning dew,
its beauty lasts in someone’s memory.
For I feel kindness as a kind of light
that can be shared like light can from a candle,
and it can make life’s darkness and its plight
not only easier for us to handle—
from gratefulness, much kindness has unfurled,
as kindness kindles kindness, lighting the world.

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Mario A. Pita

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