Emersondigital Camera Binocular Driver?

Homage to Luigi Pirandello

Reflections

oil on canvas 50x70

Reflections
A man is born, lives and dies
always playing a role.
To what extent can change
the characters he created and optimized,
other accomplices, if
looking in the mirror,
to like each other, always with
combing the row to the left?
Vincent

Cute Save The Date Poems

Poems

I want to compare, for a possible opinion on the diversity of feelings and content, poems written a few years ago, and recent poems. I can not remember when I started writing as I do not remember when I started swimming. It 's something that has always been within me and that I have always since I was a child, but I never proposed to the other, if not now on the blog.

Love Sailor
keys with your flattery
pettaccio between the jacket and shirt.

I,
drunk with wine,
let you do;
but I did not understand your purpose
now that love was over.


When I went, I noticed, in paying the taxi, the wallet was gone
.


I realized too late in your scenes leave me,
your embrace of welcome, love your
hired.
Vincent

Farewell
Our silence, bare
image
and tender embraces
saw us sitting on the bench

Hermits love
sipped exhausted that

bitter cup which we had inherited from a thousand shades

who mocked us with folded hands


In the "twilight of pebbles on a stage, behind a curtain of pine


dramatic performance in the closing scene.
Vincent

Huge silences
shut the door.
In defense of your loneliness
mingle among the branches of trees,
inaccessible trees.

Down the path a man looks at the yellow leaves fall
and the branches can see the sunlight.

Huge silences

Silhouettes and torments
backlight mingle
and disturb the mind.
leaves yellow and green,
sharp reflexes,
emotions
tenderness,
dreams
uncertainties
everything into question
well being,
drop or sea
without limits and boundaries.

yellow leaves fall,
green leaves turn yellow.

Vincent

Now I want to bring a few poems that I wrote recently:

Market Puppet.

In the old center,
narrow streets,
windows looking out windows,
seeds hidden in the privacy curtains that veiled
reveal
not steal the actual size
a life of false modesty and great illusions.

's life is passing by,
each passing day, the man who goes
,
time motionless crystallized
of an era that runs to lose breath.

Down in the streets,
spices,
fish, exotic fruits, used clothing, gear crazy

a crowd of colorful tents

to fill the belly without ever raising his eyes to heaven.

Then in the twilight,
among the lights that light up,
cries, laughs, tears, smells and tastes
flooded the narrow streets
air of melancholy with the regret of not being among them .

tongues,
that blend with the black shadows of the rooms,
between the white sheets.
Anxieties that fall asleep in the intimacy between
confused nostalgia and regret
deluded hopes of a poverty now closed.

's life is passing by, without knowing why

not know when.

Vincent

The gold of the poor.

In the heat of the sunset
gulls and white sails glide over the sea and golden beach


love songs and an old guitar
greet the sun disappears. What

nostalgic melancholy overwhelms me!

egg yolk
The sun reflecting off the deep blue waters
floating like gold.
The Gold of the poor, which converges

naturally wonder in the eyes and minds.

Yes, you can be happy without
have nothing!

Just one look,
a song out of tune,
a guitar out of tune,
a stolen kiss, a balloon
laundry
a sigh of love, a tender embrace
,
you and without malice,
I offer your breast, swollen with passion
,
behind a ramshackle hut
in long shadows of a sun that languidly
dies.

Vincent