By Bruno Talerico
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Yesterday the sky wept,nourishing the land.Today the sunmakes us sing and dance.Tomorrow the windwill invite us to fly.Until the cloudsinduce us to cry.© 2026 Bruno Talerico 30/365.
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What happened to our pride,our respect for ideals and each other?When will Americabecome a country again?The second American revolutionhasn’t begun.I guess we’re waitingfor the next level of tyranny:the next abuse of power,the next big lie,the next door kicked in.We spent billionsand buried astronautsto grab a few souvenirs from the moon.What if instead we had investedin…
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Squatting in strained blue.Who could resist herin that blue dress?Girls clamoring for new clothes, kids complainingabout what Mom made for dinner. Frizzy hippie hair,feet in salt water,wind chimes in the old maple,peaks and troughs of the dunes,the pause between the waves. Peanut vendors chanting,air filled with pot,goat scent and peacock chorus. Skritch of pen on…
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I want to givemy love untilyou can takeno more, butwant no less. © 2026 Bruno Talerico26/365.
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Bombs haven’t fallen on American soil,and tanks aren’t rollingthrough neighborhoods— yet. We are at war:a war ofgreed versus compassion. Tankers have been pirated.Boats have been sunk.Men drown—and are shot. Foreign leaders have been kidnapped.Allies have been threatened. We are at war:a war oftruth versus propaganda. Citizens have been murdered. We have been at war:a war…
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Bits of straw,wood chips,decaying cardboard,plastic remnants. I’m not sureif it’s the squirrel that occasionally peersinto the sliding glass door. or the packrat I sawtrying to hideat the corner of the house. but someone appreciates me enough to leave giftsneatly arranged on my doorstep. © 2026 Bruno Talerico24/365.
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A friend asked mewhat my writing routine is,and I gave my pat answer:I don’t have one. ThenI couldn’t stop thinking about itand felt compelled to write downmy thoughts. I don’t sit at a deskwith a leather journaland fountain penor walk to a studioin the woods. But at least once a day,I am compelledto scribble on…
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America isn’t lacking urgency.It’s lacking digestion—the slow, disciplined workof converting outrage to action. In anatomy and physiology class,I learned that mass movementsare intense, sustained,wave-like contractionsof the large intestine’s smooth muscle. They rapidly propel accumulated fecesinto the rectum, signalingthe urge to defecate. So imagine the wheels turning in my mindwhen I saw this headline in The…
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Most often I write poetryon an iPad,or at the desktop. But sometimes, an idea pops up—and I have to record itbefore it’s gone. Then I grab whatever’s available: Sharpie on junk mail,a pencil stub on a sticky note,ballpoint on a dollar store notepad,crayon on scavenged cardboard,felt tip pen in the margins of old books. I…
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I begin each day at first lightreceptive and willing to fail—a wrong turn, a blank page. twilight breezes and birdsongoffer guidanceavailable only to the quiet witness. Authenticity is the webconnectingone thing to the next. I dowhat seems most importantin this moment, then,adapt. © 2026 Bruno Talerico20/365.Revision of an older poem inspired by William Stafford
Desert Dweller 