directions to the daily sailors who anchor here

if you see (at once and with no doubt) a swallow over a summer garden in the random mess of paint on the painter’s palette above, then you’ll probably appreciate my new place at

otherwise, happy that you still moor here in this beloved bay of mine that nothing else i’ll ever do can compare to – but i tell you that this bay will remain in its trembling dusk forever.

in this case, go ashore and enjoy the golden sands and the inland paths of this place. there’s beauty in them.

and when you take the sea again, happy sailing to you!


on March 8

i come into you, dazed,
enter your maze
with a compass and a measuring tape.

but the tape is a blindfold,
and the needle keeps spinning around
in magnetic laugh
and mocks the tools of a man
that is left with no sight and no clue.

in need of a route,
i look up for a north star
in your burgundy sky,
as a guide;
but the stars of your cosmos
keep rolling forever in carnival ride.

no “because” and no “why”,
says the child that smiles to me, child again,
and no “where” and no “when”.

your high tides of woman tune up
with the ebbs of a moon that you know
and it’s not the same moon of the men,
and it’s not the same ocean.

dancing gears. and everything is in motion,
in here.

you wild and untamed,
bundle of courage and fears,
you’re a tree rooted deep into earth
and still longing for translucent skies
that don’t end at the end of the nights
or at the confines
of your hard-earned days,

they stretch further,
to where it’s not black or white,
and you don’t need to tell
the truths from the lies,
the wrongs from the rights.

to somewhere apart where everything’s one
and you’re not compartmentalized.

you bird on two legs with no wings,
you just need to open your eyes
to take flight.
watching you, crazy visionary,
i ask myself if it’s really that hard,
to stay fully human and still learn to fly.

____ by Paolo M. 2015

cover_tmhw_littlefree download at smashwords dot com

on march 8


coverpoemsminiyour lips
hurtle ablaze across the space
of the slumbering room.

scarlet sparks, they race far too fast
for my lips to intercept.

i see them shoot across the line of my sight,
over my head, left to right,

as comets in dying trajectory,
ruby satellites through the atmosphere,
slivers of stars, crazy meteors
that precipitate somewhere beside,
here on my bed.

and i lay mesmerized
with my eyes on their crimson wake
that liquefies and evaporates,
red to pink, pink to white,
white to pale.
pale to night.

on your pillow a crater,
where two embers gleam
down at the bottom,
ready to spark in wildfires again.

and i don’t know which way:
if to blow my monsoon, stir the flame,
or to smother their fire
with hours of showers and rain.


by Paolo M., copyright 2015

Love Plays Slow, by Paolo M. Smashwords Edition, 2015

the collection is at