For a long time, Captain Hector Barbossa lived in our kitchen cupboard.
During dinner, we heard him eating apples, being disinclined to acquiesce the request of parley, encrusting his peg leg with gold and jewels.
One day he wasn’t there.
“He was just gone, mum”, my daughter said.  “He  was recognizing that the wind was blowing in his favor, and requesting all sails be made ready to grab as much wind as possible”.
“Maybe”, I asked, “we will see him again?”
“Oh. No”, my daughter said. “But nothing too bad, mum. I’ve invited Harry to come over here before going to Hogwarts. I just sent him a letter by flinging it out of my window for his owl to pick up. You’ll love him.”

september 1st
the platform 9 & 3/4
on my back

Antonietta Losito

He only played Bach, the music teacher, my neighbor at university.
When I asked why, he answered: “You can be sure that the angels play Bach while praising God in Heaven.”
I laughed. “Oh yeah. So in Hell, when the demons praise Satan they play probably Penderecki.”

camping night
the belling of a stag
calling his mate

Antonietta Losito

8 o’clock, Thursday evening. From that first tentative ripple of applause through spatulas on frying pans to a smattering of fireworks, the inhabitants of our locked down microcosmic Wonderland can be heard looking out. For each other.

blood
and guts
those still working

Helen Buckingham

I believe that if we were to remove one element of this poem—–whether the rainwater, chickens, or wheelbarrow—-all of us would die. The universe would be all wrong.

a matter of where you are a rainbow

Joseph Salvatore Aversano