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Con VitaItalian words taste different on my tongue. They are like Sunday suppers as they pass through my lips. Twirling them between fork and spoon They take me to Nana's kitchen Where she painted the windows with her green thumbs And plucked parsley and garlic from the blackened soill. That was when I first heard those words coming through the static on the radio. And I stole kisses from my papa as I swayed to the sound. Somewhere between the tarantella my soul can be found. And in our dance our souls did exchange Because like him I am everywhere And I live by my heart. And likeCon Vita
by ~riverblossom
Babcia HandsOld woman Sitting by the window Blue eyes staring Beneath wrinkles she's smiling Shares silent stories Stretching the dough with work-worn fingers Pulling the circles open, wider like white moons against the tin-foil sky Folding them into crescents Pinching them closed with her soft palm hands Babcia hands, knotted with worship and calloused with love. Praying hands over a wooden pew Kneeling beside jeweled mosaics that contrast against chiseled stone. Silent hands against wind-scented sheets, beneath moon crescents and distant galaxies. Working hands that peel backBabcia Hands
by ~riverblossom
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: New York
- Interests: Writing, poetry, singing, history, blogging, humanism, belly dance, crafting, reading, drumming
- Favourite movie: I have several
- Favourite band or musician: Don't really have a favorite
- Favourite genre of music: industrial, metal, blues, oldies, rock, showtunes
- Favourite artist: Peter Paul Rubens, Alphonse Mucha
- Favourite poet or writer: Neil Gaiman, Lewis Carroll, Edgar Allen Poe, Michael Criton, Stephen King
- MP3 player of choice: zen/insignia
- Favourite game: scrabble
- Tools of the Trade: pen and paper, acrylics, mod podge, yarn, scissors
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