On St. Peter's Square, when heaven’s vaults are silent and alone, 
and the door to the dead the keeper of the keys has secured, 
and through the colonnades winds whisper why, slyly obscured.
A witness yet stands, ageless stone stolen from Pharaoh’s home.

No, to the women who speak; no, to the saintly that seek, 
now might the rule, station the tool, ritual the self-serving amen.
Where the pilgrims pining, where the souls so broken and bleak?  
Still, the bent world broods, looking eastward for a hero. Then, 

     the Blind Pigeon comes, tap-tap-tapping the way 

over cold stones and old bones – echoes of a lost lament,

where the crimson crowns lavished away their salt and say. 

So now, in stillborn circles turns nature’s nurturer everspent.

Weep not, O winged spirit, O giver of breath and grace, 
soon the maker of time will find thee a more loving race.

Leo Gher (August 2019)

Modern poetry goes beyond the English/Italian tradition, highlighting form, diction, and imagery from cultures outside the Western canon.

Below are some short poems with fractured ideas, but big images. I call them Sparklers. As reader, I ask that you let your imagination break past the normal, visual world.

I call these HiCoos.

Like Pound or Cummings, I too find it impossible to mimic Japanese haikus. But I do try to incorporate the basic elements of imagery and sound (the cutting word), and seasonality of the Japanese tradition.