A Postcard from Me to Me

A postcard sent to me from me with LOVE from Rome, Italy:


Where does inspiration come from?

As I sit at a café sipping my cappuccino in the early morning (well early for Italians.... 8am)in Piazza Farnese, this question finds itself on repeat in my head.
 

Is it the ornate façade, with every Florentine perfectly aligned?
 

Maybe it's the black cobbled stone that reflects the illumination of the city at night but during the daylight serves as the foundation from which Roma stands?
 

Perhaps, is the enormous fontana that have proven their worth with centuries of longevity?
 

Inspiration may be drawn from the simple white dress that perfectly frames the femininity of her body as she confidently navigates the bumpy road in her stiletto heals.
 

It's the simplicity of the trickling water and it's reflection of the early morning light as it moves over the fontana.
 

Creativity could be found in the dance of the business man's hands as he closes an every day business transaction like a perfectly executed ballet.
 

It's the flapping of the common pigeons' wings, defying boundaries and breaking every rule.
 

It could come form the irony of the white jacketed doctor who chain smokes in the piazza.
 

Or the nun in black and white who paradoxically keeps in step with a young girl in cut off short and belly exposed to the world.
 

The guitarist who smiles a little brighter with every string he strums.
 

It could come from the three wheeled miniature truck with a bed filled with a rainbow selection of flowers as it wobbles down the narrow lanes.

Love,  April Netschke

Bound Nostalgia

 

 

On the cobbled Roman street
my path would purposefully divert
to stroll under the cover of the old book stand.
For the old tattered pieces of literature
offered me not the usual pleasure that books give,
for I am unable to read Italian.
However,
my path diverted so that
I could breathe in the incredible aroma of nostalgia
that these old books held.
There smell whispering a secret of their history that is bound between the covers,
begging to be told.
I'd watch the beautiful souls that rummaged the stand.
One by one
unwrapping the history with the opening of a book.

Tether

Torn between worlds

The rusted chains made of the past and the ode to it

Tether her bright soul to a place in space that exists because of 

promises

a home

a life

Internal acceptance of a long hidden secret acts like a violent tornado of wind

Sweeping her whole pale lifeless body up with unrelenting fury

But the rusted chains hold tight her ankle

The harsh smell of rust permeates the air reminding her of where she should remain

tethered

The internal wind continues to whip

Throwing her hair in every directions

Body like a rag doll

Caught in a tornado of fury

The heavy chains begin to dig into the soft flesh

The thick warmth of her blood begins to drips but splatters with the wind

She cries out but sound is not heard

She can't even hear herself 

Unwilling to command the winds to seize

to give in

She closes her eyes in the midst of the madness

You see in her white knuckled fist she holds the key

The key that could unlock her promise of the past and send her into a whole new world

A key that could end the pain

Yet she remains clenching the key in that white knuckled fist until it's jagged ends tear into her palms

Afraid to unlock the chains

Afraid to let the winds die down