Rants. raves and ramblings from celestial circles . . .

Posts tagged ‘poet’



‘on the streets of Rome the roads are paved with desire’


In a small cafe in Rome

sit I in my latte espresso,


The streets are hills

where all roads lead.

A gas pump


pumps the smell of petrol


young girls in their skin tights

old men dream, cry

reshape a future

no longer theirs.

In business they give nothing away

the begging is stealing

and the prize vanishes

once your hungry fingers


a sparkling light invisible.


Where do the signals

of the hustling bustling strada

direct the lost and wandering

without direction?

Without stars or visions

or love

or money?

Without the future of an anchored past?

Without a cigarette to hold

between two fingers.

Without smoke to hide

heated passions

never found.


Buzzing boys on scooters

and girls on motorcycles

swarming worker bees

pace the afternoon air

directing the incessant

active backdrop stage of noise

for ice cream eating aging beauties

tongue licking spinning ice cream cones

spinning vanilla upper lip memories

of once best nights satisfied

yet even now

never happy.


Where did your gas pump stop spinning?

When did it stop pumping

fairy tale novels romance?

Holy sister keeps the steeple bells ringing

where all else pulses silent

hushed by the smiles of bright blue skies

turned dark and cloudy black.


Where did your pump stop pumping?

When did your wars become death star battles?

Why has the diamond sky never lit your way?

The graffiti walls do not conceal any answers.

The petrol smell pump

keeps every designer baby carriage rolling.

The pulsating sirens gift only more questions.


What does the business meeting want?


What does the endless night desire?


What does the greed of possession refuse to give?


Where do you buy your next human touch?


From pigeons lonely for the next crumb.




f. j. llorente

Rome, Italy

April 7, 2017


My sails have weathered and aged
through the years.
They are not as crisp as when they were new.
Yet they take good form to a hearty wind.

My strong treated hardwood masts
even now, stand tall and looming,
proudly visible from a distance.
My polished bow still gleams
in a splash of favorable sun.
And though my deck has keenly felt
the belting torment
of a thousand salty ocean storms
it remains immaculate and polished.

My rudder does not fail
to hold my bearing,
my journey and direction true.
All my instruments are accurate.
And all my lines and ropes, secured, not frayed.
My cabin is a hearth, both warm and soft
of carved and shiny patterned wood
with fathomed depth and heart without bottom.

I am still the captain and the first hand
and the sailor
and the laboring crew.
I still float brisk along bobbing waters
and long to feel the edging wind upon my back.
I still follow guiding stars in pitch black darkness.
And fear the trembling storm
seeking the promised light of a bright new day.
For I was born a great and mighty vessel
and I shall push forward
until my creator
to the great ocean
does call me home.



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