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Best Italian Poems

Below are the all-time best Italian poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Italian poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Italian Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Italian poems are below this new poems list.

Waiting For Lonely Morning by Winzer, Glory
Wicked Mischief by Dietrich, Andrea
For bread and country by Human, Daniel
Ice age on the pavement by Human, Daniel
From The unrequited love by Semenya, Choene Alley
Into the last by Human, Daniel
Love's that Magical Wonder by Bateman, Gary
YOU NEED TO - Italian Madrigal by Petersen Potter, Dorian
How Not to Start a War by Andemariam, Veronica
Dominick The Italian Christmas Donkey by Rose, Mystic

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The Best Italian Poems

Details | Italian Poem | |

Spoilt Brat

A soft spring breeze blows gently across the open toes of my Italian leather sandals. Sitting on the weathered oaken bench I can picture you swinging on those wooden slat swings with your flowing hair pushed back in a ponytail bouncing up and down off the top of your cashmere sweater I imagine your little smile as you giggled with your girlfriends I can still see that little twinkle in your eye as you caught me staring at you I smiled and my cheeks turned a pinkish red I remember walking over your way and asking your name You said it was Spoilt Brat and I couldn't help laugh We took a walk as all your friends watched You were so bold, grabbing my hand and starting to run We ran so fast and then fell helplessly in the grass You touched my faced and pulled me in and we kissed, oh such a wonderful kiss so soft and light. you lit up my night Such beautiful memories coming back to me on this sunny spring day.

More great poems below...

Details | Italian Poem | |


How do I tell you that you’re beautiful?

How can I be different?

How can I express my attraction?

When columns upon
Of testosterone filled wolves
Dressed in rented Italian suits
And discolored, mesh sneakers
Speak similar flirtatious dialect

Will this baby scented Sunflower do the trick?

I picked it from my walled Garden of Eden.

I spent 4 years mending these butterfly coated petals,
Solely for this moment

How can I express my need for your smile?

When tattered paper donations have been sent
To elicit short-term, newlywed goose bumps upon your flesh


May I have this dance? 

You’ve never heard this sensual ballad.

But, it’s an element of my Spoken Word
Waiting for your translation

I await your palms,
Because this is not a Man’s world

This can be ours.

But, will you leap off from trampoline’s corazon? 

My syllables are in your hands.

My book is within your misunderstood palm paths.

If you’re going to read between my lines,
Do not be illiterate to my heartbeats.

Your move…

©Drake J. Eszes

Details | Italian Poem | |

The Pedicure Virgin

I don't know what came over me that day - an instant of weakness after years of resistance, I suppose.

My beaming spouse leads me, a dog on a short leash, into the forbidden citadel, the sanctum sanctorum of feminine fastidiousness, the dreaded nail salon.

As we pass through the portal, we enter another dimension, one not of Man. 

One of Woman.

Overwhelmed by estrogen, like Superman in the presence of Kryptonite,  my strength saps. 

The harpies in the salon immediately sense fresh meat, hailing my wife like Caesar in a Roman triumph, gleeful in the knowledge of the barbaric sacrifice to follow. Lightheaded, my eyes dart around, a trapped beast seeking escape.

I'm screwed.

The sacrificial altar is prepared. The torture device is like a dentist's chair, but with a tub for the feet, presumably where they will drain out my blood. Resigned to my fate, I mount the gallows.

Glancing around, it seems that all the employees are Southeast Asians. Mostly young. Reputedly, they own this territory, like Indians in convenience stores or Italian greengrocers. My personal tormentor is the proprietor, a slim pretty Vietnamese woman perhaps in her mid 50's, with cold eyes and a professional smile.

I immediately sense  that I am dealing with She Who Must Be Obeyed. I am commanded in that bossy Asian way to put my feet in the tub, as she turns on the water. Apparently, like some feminine droit du seigneur, Dragon Lady reserves the right to draw first blood from pedicure virgins. My primae noctis, so to speak.

As she sits below me and leans forward to grab my feet, I get a good look at her  well-formed cleavage. Maybe this won't be so bad,after all...

As my feet soak, I close my eyes and sink into a Felliniesque fantasy, surrounded by Asian houris garbed in short white Grecian gowns, catering to my manly whims.

I'm getting a semi...

Dragon Lady brings me back to reality, placing my left foot on her toweled workspace. 

There's another guy here... 
and that SOB is getting a manicure from one of my girlfriends!

An older lady enters the shop. She has an experienced and well-traveled look. Obviously a repeat offender, she immediately begins apologizing to Dragon Lady for her tardiness, meanwhile sizing me up like a slab of man-meat. Dragon Lady gives her a proper scolding, then the horny old biddy tweaks my big toe and flashes me a knowing smile. I wonder if she is packing heat in that big purse...

Suddenly, I become William Holden in Sunset Boulevard. As I make a break for freedom, I am plugged in the back by the scorned Gloria Swanson lookalike.

Then, a cold look from Dragon Lady and my spouse re-establishes territory and Gloria backs off.

Dragon Lady looks pleased as she draws out what appear to be farrier's tools for shoeing horses, presumably to work on my virgin toenails, which I admit are heading toward Fu Manchu territory. A pair of evil-looking wire cutters makes short work of my talons, then she pulls out a chisel and begins removing layers of yellowed nail until they are smooth and white. 

Nice. I can take this. 

Then she removes the cuticles and pushes back the skin.

Holy crap! I think she just popped my cherry! I see blood on my big toenail. I take it like a man. A bead of sweat runs down my brow.

She finishes the flaying job, puts the foot back into the soothing bath and begins carving up the other one.

"And women pay for this?", I think.

"You like massage?", she asks.

"Massage?" I glance at my spouse nervously, wondering if she intuits the direction of my thoughts. 

She points to the control panel on the chair. 


"Why, yes. Yes I would!", I reply.

Anything to take my mind off my pending amputation.

"All the way?"

I suppress my licentious thoughts.

"Warp seven, Mr. Sulu."


"To infinity, and beyond!"

She got that one, and turns on the machine. Robocop immediately digs deeply into my neck  and spine with his titanium-steel fingers, plowing my vertebral column like a John Deere cultivator. My central nervous system releases a  flood of endorphins. The cocktail of pain and pleasure is a masochist's wet dream.

The surgery going on downstairs dissolves into the background...

Dragon Lady puts the second foot back in the tub and removes the first. She pulls out a big cheese grater and goes to work on the bottom of my foot. I don't have thick calluses, but she produces a pretty respectable pile of Parmigiano. Makes short shrift on foot two. My smooth feet now look like a baby's. 

Not too bad, not too bad. 

My spouse shoots me the old Told You So look and smiles.

Dragon Lady now pulls out the pumice for the final polish. As she goes to work on my foot, nerve endings now exposed after many years return me to infancy.

It tickles! Oh Momma, does it tickle! 

I'm giggling like a young girl. I can't stop, and I really don't want to either. The entire salon joins in my giggle fest. 

Dragon Lady doesn't let up for a second. She is giggling too, and for the first time I see the young, innocent Vietnamese girl buried deep inside. 

Then I see the napalm and burnt village.

And all the rest of it...

I see and she sees. We each have seen... too much.

She smiles sadly. As do I.

My next appointment is in a month

I'll be there.

September 11, 2014

Details | Italian Poem | |

Kerouac's Grave

slicked with sweat,
and hearing the locusts’ cries deep in my neck,
I stood over the remains of Sal Paradise.
The spotty grass around the tombstone
was browned and littered
with trodden Camel filters
and corroded bottle caps.
I reached into my inspired rucksack
and discovered a Deutchmark,
forgotten like a sleepy drunk at a tavern.
I ceremonially placed it on the granite-
amid the years
and a crusty half-empty whiskey bottle
a different friend had left.
I hunched over the grave,
my head bowed,
but not really praying or thinking
about him.
And now I sit across the street,
seated by the window
in a little Italian restaurant.
I am the lone customer,
ensconced by piped-in light FM muzak.

Details | Italian Poem | |

Scherben des Lebens/ The shards of life/ Los fragmentos de la vida

Die Scherben des Lebens lassen sich nicht kitten.  (German)

The shards of the life cannot be cemented.  (English)

Los fragmentos de la vida no se puede enmasillar.  (Spanish)

Les éclats de vie ne peu pas être à nouveau ensemble.  (French)

I frammenti di vita non può essere di nuovo insieme .  (Italian)

Die skerwe van die lewe kan nie weer saam wees. (Afrikaans)

Ang mga tipak ng buhay ay hindi maaaring simentuhin. (Tagalog)

Cioburile vietii nu pot fi cimentat. (Romanian)

More great poems below...

Details | Italian Poem | |

Adult Content : Then I Do It

This recently happened to me. I didn’t recover very well from it. I just sat there naked, embarrassed, while while my partner got dressed and walked out on me. She was shaking her head in disbelief on the way out. Here is what happened. We are in the throes of mad passionate love making. I am twisted up like a pretzel with my tongue here, my fingers there, really excited, in fact my you know what was harder than Chinese mathematics. I mean my tongue is doing a Spanish Tango my fingers the Watusi my center an African Tribal Dance and when I say African Tribal Dance I mean my ass is shaking like a belly dancer with a vibrator up her ass. I could hear that sharp female voice yelling like a soprano in an Italian Opera and she’s yelling too but with that deep voice of hers like a banshee out of hell. Oh no, oh no, oh yes oh yes, oh oh oh oh... then suddenly like fireworks on the fourth of July boom...boom, boom, boom, boom... she goes. Then I do it at the peak of orgasm I do it. I really blow it. No pun intended. Instead of... I mean we've all done it... instead of saying her name At the peak of orgasm I yell out my own name! 09~11~2014 Knuckle Head Yvonne

Details | Italian Poem | |


I sat down to study the Netherlands tried to gather all the scoop
Entering every contest cause I'm new to Poetry Soup

I read all the poetry masters to grow I must surely invest
What I've discovered in almost no time is why Soup poets are the best

Zerbst wrote an anthem with some amazing poetic twist
Made me wish I was from Freisland this sprawling sealand really exist

Dr. Ram wrote a history thesis he even quotes the great Shakespeare 
The Netherlands in an Italian sonnet another masterpiece was here

Cornish obviously did his homework in couplet form he holds command
Displays the heart and pride of the people when I read his words I want to stand

Andrea's the Soup contest master so you knew she'd draw her pen
With perfection her ode to Freisland, Ms. Dietrich has done it once again

I could go on with the works on Netherlands a shout out to John, Ralph, and Tim
A descriptive write by Huberta van Akkeren, these odes will make sweet Elly grin

So I learned all about the Netherlands another ode wasn't needed from me
To be proud of this majestic country... May she ever be beautiful and free!

Sponsor: Elly Wouterse
Contest Name: Your ode to 'my' Netherlands and/or 'my' Friesland

*Happy Birthday Elle!

Details | Italian Poem | |

Dante's Divina Commedia translation

The difficult translation of first Canto of Divina Commedia is here completed
In the part published before, Dante imagined to find himself in a dark forest where he met three beasts. 
Now he is going to meet the poet  Virgilio who will bring him through the Hell and Purgatory. 
The original italian is omitted for simplicity.
I ask readers to comment even negatively this hard work.

And such as guy acquiring with decision,
And comes the time which brings him then to lose,
So that his thoughts with sorrow find collision;

Similar the peaceless beast with strong abuse
Coming against me direct bit by bit
Constrained me with shadow to confuse.

And while compelled to slide down and quit,
Before my eyes just the faint view appeared
Of who for long hush seemed to have no fit.

When I saw him in the wide desert cleared,
“Miserere of me”, I screamed to him,
“If you to shadow or to man adhered”

Replied: “I'm not now, man I was not dim,
Lombard my parents just certainly were
Both from Mantua, their home with vim.

Arose sub Julio, even late occur,
And lived in Rome under August good
In times of liars false gods and faith blur.

Poet I was, and sung of that with just mood
Anchise’s son who came in a trip from Troy,
When superb Ilion burned as a wood. 

But why you follow of trouble the decoy?
Why the delectable hill don’t you rise 
Which is the start and cause of  a full joy?”.

“Are you now that Virgilio source wise
Who spreads of words a so ample river?”.
 I answered him with my shameful eyes.

“O of other poets light and honor giver,
Might I have gain from long study and love
Which made me look for your work with quiver.

You are my master who inspires above,
You are the only one from whom I took
The stile admirable of my honor shove.

The beast which made me run away now look;
I beg your help, indeed famous wise man,
‘Cause me a trembling in veins and pulse shook”

“To take another trip better you can”,
He answered, when saw my weeping pain,
“If out of this savage place you want to scan;

Since this beast , which causes your complain,
Nobody allows  its way to align,
But fights against him until is slain,

And its nature is so ruthless and malign,
That never fills in its greedy will,
And is hungrier after than before dine.

Many are the animals with which joins still,
And even more will be, until the hound 
Will come, and shall it painfully kill.

This one by richness will not be bound
But by wisdom, love and virtue alone
And between two felts will come and found.

Might help that Italy to humble prone
For which lost life Camilla virgin pure
Eurialo, Turno and Niso killed as known.

This one will hunt it hard in every moor,
Until it will fall in the deepest hell,
Just where from it started envy impure.

So for your sake I think and judge well
That you should follow me, your guide,
 And I will shepherd you in endless dell;

Where with desperate shouting you shall collide,
You shall see ancient spirits in their pain,
Who are all shouting to be again died;

You shall see those who happily sustain
To stay in fire, hoping to come back
No matter when in the blessed domain.

Where you can climb following the track,
A more worthy soul than me will be:
With her I will leave you, this is my tack;

Since the great emperor who there up can see,
'Cause I was a rebel against his law,
To guide you there forbids that I be free.

He commands everywhere and puts his awe; 
Here resides his domain and lofty throne:
Lucky the people elected to this joie!”.

And I to him: “Poet, my need is here shown
In name of God you did not even know,
To escape this evil maybe not alone,

That you now bring me where you told to go,
So then I see the true saint Peter’s gate
And also people you tell afflicted so”

And when he moved, him I followed straight.           

Details | Italian Poem | |

An Italian Thanksgiving

Tom Turkey’s tender meat waits Lasagna’s served first Enticing garlic scent wafts Melted, fresh mozzarella Layered with rich sauce Temptation Yield !
*Written October 26, 2014. ;D My brother-in-law’s family has no room for turkey after eating the lasagna!

Details | Italian Poem | |


Thick or thin, it is the Friday night order in special,
Supreme or meat lovers delight, whatever toppings
You like it, does not matter for it’s 
The all American favorite, Pizza!!
Roll out that dough, cover it with Italians specialty
Sauce, cheese me to please me, I’ll never get enough,
I’m simply addicted to this deep dish pan delicious stuff.
Cut me no single slice, for more, more, more,
Is the thunderous roar of my mighty hungering’s
Rumbling, within my tummy, for what Pizza!!!
Circled or squared, just roll that pizza cutter of 
Portions pleasure, pick up your slice and allow
That thick cheese to pull apart naturally,
Then bite into Nirvana, for this is heavens
Perfection guaranteed by the slice.
Now the frozen microwave style may work in a pinch,
Delivery or the hot and ready special can satisfy
My personal hunger glitch, for that tasty pizza pie,
As long as can get it, I’m satisfied.
Oh grant me one pleasures sinful command to break
Dearest lord above, to indulge myself, and stuff
Myself with pizza, pizza until I burst, for gluttony is
One distractions fault I have dear father, when it
Comes to this circle food, as it spins on the nightly
Commensals boob tube.
Is it not against the law to hide messages within
Certain text, because I swear these advertisers
Know our fragile human weaknesses, late at night
For  this delectable substance, called what
Pizza, if I haven’t mentioned it enough,
Yummy, yum, yum old chum.
It’s the party hardy mid-night special, on all
Channels of the United States of America,
There is no doubt of this, rock my world
In flavorful old time favorite, dude I’m
With you all the way, especially on a 
Friday night.
This is my declaration of independence
Declared in Italian sauces redden stainy ink,
Give me Pizza or give me death, just kidding
Folks, by the way do you want that last
Pizza slice, I’m not quite full yet, lol.


Details | Italian Poem | |



Paganini, with his bony, white hands,
In the graveyard,
Playing for the dead

What a thought!
All that cold, weathered stone,
The few leafless trees,
What a diseased sort of scene

And the great Italian violin virtuoso,
So thin, so hook nosed,
Courting Satan
So they thought

Hands of old grandfather disturb,
Reminding the hour,
Pointing up

For sure, the fiddler,
Weird, stick of a man,
Was headed south,
Or so they thought

And so this crazy fiddler thinks,
At his late hour,
Hands hanging limp

Hands clasped in prayer?

Just a chuckle
At the outrageous thought
Of being no more

Dave Austin

Details | Italian Poem | |

snowed in


                                              snowed in

it 's snowed very hard for three days now
my car is buried deep
the power is out, no tv  at all
for a few more days, they say

firewood is piled high on the porch
at least I have some heat
I can warm canned food upon the fire
and jelly sandwiches can't be beat

what am I to do, I say
surely boredom will set in
with candles bright, I light up the room
and resign myself to doom

I look around and see my books
I used to read a lot
maybe there is something there 
to help me pass the time

Hemingway and Steinbeck too
they catch my eyes so quick
Farewell to Arms and Grapes of Wrath
look promising at best

the Italian front in world war 1
a love so strong I weep
why have I not read this before
it's been on the shelf to keep

the plight of the poor migrants life
as they travel from place to place
my parents talked of such times before
when no one had enough to eat

I see more books before my eyes
Dickens, Defoe and Swift
I guess I will give them a try
and see what wonder lie

the day goes fast, the fire is warm
I am in another world
maybe the snow will never stop
and leave me alone to read

Details | Italian Poem | |

Pisa not Pizza

                                                                           ONE HUNDRED
                                                                          NINETY AND NI
                                                                         NE YEARS TIME
                                                              IS WHAT IT TOOK TO BUILD
                                                             THIS TOWER IN AN ITALIAN
                                                           CITY BEHIND ITS CATHEDRAL
                                                        THIS FREE STANDING TOWER
                                                       IN THE CITY OF PISA WAS FOR
                                                      THE CATHEDRALS LARGE BELL
                                                    THUS BEING THE BELL TOWER
                                                   THE TOWER BEGAN LEANING
                                                  DURING THE CONTRUCTION 
                                                 LATER ONE SIDE OF THE BASE 
                                                WAS DISCOVERED TO BE TOO
                                               SOFT A FOUNDATION FOR IT
                                             SO GUESS THEY NEVER READ
                                           THE STORY ABOUT BUILDING
                                          ON SAND OR WAS IT THEIRS
                                        IT STARTED LEANING MORE
                                       AND MORE OVER DECADES
                                      THEN IT LOOKED  LIKE THIS 
                                   THIS TOWER HAS BECOME
                                  VERY FAMOUS OVER THE
                                YEARS AND IS KNOWN AS
                               THE LEANING TOWER OF
                             PISA FOUND IN THE CITY
                            PISA IN TUSCANY ITALY

Brenda Meier-Hans 

Details | Italian Poem | |

The Ancient Lady

She is ancient, tall and wise
Her slender frame so frail
Skin so smooth, but deathly pale
Bright against dark skies
Against her soon the wind will rise
Against her let it rail
I pray the lord she does not fail
As with the storm she vies

And thus begins an epic fight
To beat the mighty gale
And as she heads into the night
Who knows where she may trail
Dawn breaks at last it’s such a sight
As once more she sets sail

Contest : Italian Sonnet
5th place

8th place

Details | Italian Poem | |

Christmas Spirit

"Christmas Spirit" (Christmas Day in Italian Culture) as a snowy blanket of white caresses in Winter's glow and frosty icicles kiss windowpanes in glazy show a silent atmosphere embraces a starlit sight while magnificent choir of Angels sing Hosanna O! Holy Night. Church bells chime in twilight mist to welcome Christmas day wishing holiday greetings while children glide on sleigh glorious festive mood captivates inspired light as heavenly Angelic voices praise Hosanna O! Holy Night. decorations adorn to honor the precious Infant King candlelight illuminates the Manger Scene as carolers sweetly sing the scent of fragrant pine cones creates an aura to ignite hymns of worship as heralding Angels proclaim Hosanna O! Holy Night. soon family gathers to partake of traditional Christmas meal "Feast of the Seven Fishes"prelude to tree trimming feel the fireplace mantle glows where stockings smile so bright and hark the herald Angel hosts greet Hosanna O! Holy Night. Joseph is the patriarch who shelters newborn babe a gift of God from Heaven sent to Earth to save a glorious time for celebration in precious moment of delight majestic music from Angels chanting Hosanna O! Holy Night. sheer warmth of having a personal relationship with the Lord a unique experience enlightening as He is adored sharing love with everyone, the human spirit takes flight melting their voices with holy Angels singing Hosanna O! Holy Night. *For Cyndi's Season of Lights, Delights & Enlightenment Contest. *Nov. 14, 2012.
in the Italian culture we begin our Christmas celebration ... Christmas Eve - Feast of Seven Fishes Dinner for good health & prosperity Tree trimming ceremony with music and singing toasting wine Midnight Mass at Basilica in Rome or at Church in N.J. Dessert Party after Mass with eggnog Christmas Day exchanging gifts and visiting children and seniors at hospitals Pasta dinner with salads and baked stuff shells with meatballs Desserts of creme puffs laced with rum, cannolis pastry filled with chocolate Wine tasting from orchards of Italy imported with olive tray Candlelight ceremony where all hold a lit candle making a wish for a Happy New Year.

Details | Italian Poem | |


Decadent ladyfinger Infused with coffee Layered, rich, cheese filled delight I long for your taste My Italian love And your rum Yum!

Details | Italian Poem | |

Is She the One?

(Inspired by the brilliant new avant garde
 Italian film: "I Am Love")

Could she shatter vows, and is she the one
who’d relinquish everything just for love?
If it meant that all she knew would come undone,
could she shatter vows, and is she the one?
If she knew that those she cared about might shun
her, could she go against her God above?
Could she shatter vows, and is she the one
who’d relinquish everything just for love?

For the Contest: Is She the One?
         sponsored by Tavarus M. Moreland

Details | Italian Poem | |

A Piece Of The Pie

This was only our second date... A Black Tie Affair... ...Set against an incredible view, vineyards, waterfalls, a plentitude of flower beds, all just outside a charming postcard Town. This indeed was a serious event, anyone  who was anyone... and my date...were here. A live Jazz Band filled the air with a symphony of soothing sounds we all took our seats as  The Annual Fine Pie Tasting Festival began. My first nibble was an Orange  Blossom Grand Marnier Silk Pie. I cleansed my palate with a sixty seven French Beaujolais   took my tiny fork and partook of a slice of heaven. The pie had a fine bouquet with a peach raspberry scent. It was a nice blend, moist, with a fragrant overtone of fermented grapes... my date, well, my date just porked down her first slice... one swallow. Her comment? ..."Yeah, yummy" and added "can I have some more wine, and fill the glass up this time, Mr. Stingy" Ah the wonderful charm of youth (...luckily no one heard her.) Now came the second offering a Vienna Chocolate Lace Kaluha Pie. My date grabbed three slices complaining about the size. Charming! (...Thank God no one saw. I enjoy my ranking in this exclusive social group) If she asks for more wine I'm going to hand her the bottle  tell her to swig that. The next offering is a Dulche De Leche Italian Rum Pie I dread the thought she might try to wring a slice in order to squeeze out the Rum. All is well, she has wolfed down her serving before the thought occurs to her. Imagine my surprise? I order a third bottle of wine. There is not a drop left in our second bottle, not a drop. Can you wring a glass bottle?  I doubt I have had a full ounce of wine yet. At eleven hundred dollars a bottle I start to question my taste... .......women. My stunning date excuses herself. With all that wine I am surprised she has waited this long. She is wearing a gorgeous gown... "you can put lipstick on a pig..." "shit! did I just say that out loud" The  night continued... pie after pie more and more wine. The pie slices are small the bill will be HUGE! ...but ah the pies... Sweet Lime Tequila Mouse Pie Vanilla Bourbon Brazilian Pecan Pie Irish Cream Island Coconut Mouse Pie Lady Godiva Truffle Raspberry Liqueur Pie to name a few. Pie tasting? A refined activity  of the gourmet connoisseur. My disaster of a date has returned, (God she's beautiful!) "So Scrooge" she says "are you ready to leave" I am so embarrassed she is crass and rude in front of all these distinguished people. "Come on, I'm bored with this crowd of stiffs. Let's blow this Popsicle Stand," she says " They all have pickles up their asses" Well I never. ( Popsicle Stand? Just how young is she?) She continues "Honey, it is time to go back to your place for the best piece of pie you have ever had." At this point my twenty five year old goddess is more beautiful than any woman any marvel I have ever viewed... her words immaculate... ....You don't have to hit me over the head with a hammer.  ...Personally I was fed up of  all these stiffs with pickles up their ass. I think I gave some sort of dignitary the finger on the way out... ...I was excited. I have never driven so fast in my life. Finally I was going to get my piece of the pie.
16~10~2014 Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper Contest Name: Plentitude of Pies

Details | Italian Poem | |


                                    UNSUPPORTED CODE 

The end of the beginning drew very near so Jesus went to pray in the garden, Heavy was His pure heart, bruised by burden, And olive trees soon misted with His tears. He knelt beside a patch of lavender, Roses dropped petals asking for pardon, Sand only softened, refused to harden, While poppies bent their heads closer to hear. Evening deepened as Son talked to Father, Geraniums paled, His pain they could see, Daises bowed low to man’s sinless brother, Gethsemane kneeled to the Rabboni. Seeded by grace, grew a blessed flower, ~A blossom of hope, the Easter lily~
“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death, "he said to them. “Stay here and keep watch.” Going a little farther, he fell to the ground and prayed that if possible the hour migh pass from him. “Abba, Father,” he said, “Everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.” Mark 34-36 By Cyndi MacMillan for Linda Marie's Easter Inspirations Contest ABOUT THIS POEM I researched the garden of Gethsemane, and all the flowers save for the Easter Lily could very well have grown there on the night before the crucifixion. The Easter Lily is NOT mentioned in scripture (though lilies are mentioned often throughout the bible). This poem is written with the intent to honor our Lamb, and not as an accurate representation of Christ’s anguished hours. This is mixed sonnet. It has an Italian octave and a Sicilian sestet.

Details | Italian Poem | |

Falling on Honeyed Grass

Imagine yourself falling gently on grass,
wherein soft earth embraces you warmly.
Each drop of dew then tells you its story,
of how it broke free from its cage of glass.
You drink each bead, intrigued by what it has,
that makes you want more, that makes you thirsty.
A myriad of flavors, that changes daily,
 it never grows stale, no due dates to pass.

From bright kaleidoscopic waterfalls,
some honeyed mist found its way to this well,
which I’ve wished upon with this coin I threw…
And this is why I do not mind at all,
that I have stumbled, then tripped and then fell…
on earth that is you, that’s drunken me with dew.


--Italian Sonnet, Debbie sweetie ;)-- heehee, I tried >.<

** quick note: to everybody who’s passed by my poems lately,
 thank you very much ^_^—
Sorry, I can’t comment back right now, my connection is horrible (yet again!)
 and I am swamped o_O
and logged in here real quick to enter this 
in Debbie and Cyndi’s sonnet contest :D…
but hopefully I can drop by and say hello to you soon ^_^. 
Thank you again, especially to those who left comments
and asked how I was (I'm doing good, thank you ^_^)…
hope you guys are doing great as well,
and enjoy your week/end :D

Details | Italian Poem | |

Smart and Final Prose

Daylight fades, a city pulsates, and traffic is reflected in store windows.  
Hurrying headlights come out of the darkness. 
They crisscross like dueling knights.  People in the crosswalk scamper 
as if squirrels and streetlights leer gleaming yellow eyes, like watchful hawks.
The shrill trumpets of the charging gale force winds, rattle an awning,
and newly planted maple saplings bend and sway 
in random pairs.  Set in concrete planters, they hang on by tender rooted toes. 
Pages of a discarded newspaper are hurled into the air, 
buoyed on the steely breath of a frigid winter evening.  
Several leaflets scatter into the street and down the sidewalk,
into the path of one lone pedestrian.
He slaps away the sports page, that flies into his chapped, red face. 
Without hesitation, this castaway vagrant, down and out 
by the rape of hard times, will accept an offered dime,
from a passing man in a Red Sox ball cap. 
Head bent low, face hidden, a worn and dirty pea coat
pulled tightly around his thin frame, he carries all his meager belongings
in a large paper grocery bag, wrinkled and beginning to tear. 
Serving as his satchel, the brown bag, damp and worn, 
still displays big bold red and black letters 
advertising "Smart and Final Grocery"--"Located in Three Convenient Locations".
A city bus roars by, splashing through three days of rain, 
and a siren and a blaring horn is heard from the next block. 
The dark silhouetted outcast, stops for a moment, 
peers into a sidewalk trash receptacle, then continues slowly down the sidewalk.
A taxi pulls up along the curb behind him, and the attractive couple, 
dressed in evening wear, emerge, pay for their taxi, and arm in arm, 
enter Mario's Italian Restaurant, the brick bistro 
that sits on the corner of Broadway and 1st. 
It begins to rain again, and across the street people open umbrellas 
and like the afore mentioned squirrels, they scurry home to supper.
The lone man walks in the rain, his pace doesn't quicken, his voice never spoken, 
a spirit broken, ............ his sack held together by circumstance. 
A passerby takes a brief glance...just a quick, chanced moment, 
to take notice of "Smart and Final's" last stance. 

Details | Italian Poem | |

Fiddling and Footling With the Super Duper Soupers

Well if it isn’t the Italian Princess herself! I just KNEW we’d finally meet. It must be our:
(Whatcha say we…Ow! Look, you left a mark)

I swear to GOD I haven’t been drinking Deb! It’s YOU that’s making me all:
(Hold me up whouldja cher? Ohh yeah)

Wow, I’m trippin’ out Ortello! It’s like FAR OUT to rap with you man and those threads are like:
(I’m an old hippie, what did you expect?)

Well look who’s here! Andrea, the sonnet queen herself! What you drinkin girl? How bout some:
(Or maybe some ‘Southern Comfort?’ Ouch! You too?)

OH-MY-GOD, its Ms. Claudon-I-I-mean ONCLAUD (gulp) you’re getting me all:
(Here, check my pulse)

C’mon Ms. Richards! Let’s take a walk and have a nice long talk about poetry…Why do you:
(I KNOW you’re busy but I’m SO lonely)

The Flower of the East! May I have this dance? Whew! Lordy me...Do I detect the sweet aroma of:
(This was SUPPOSED to be for your contest but I footled around and didn’t read the footling RULES)

Details | Italian Poem | |

Don't Interrupt the Music

Dissonance is delegating the intensity in my eyes
Minor chords unveil the passion my body can’t belie 
Eighth notes are lightning sparks that burn my finger tips
And when you play Fminor7 I tend to bite my lips.
I want you to scale my thighs 
the way you play A minor harmonic
Deftly wrenching haunting moans 
Experiences anything but platonic
Allegro Legato Crescendo Vibrato
Sing to me in Italian and tell me to hold my tongue
But if anyone interrupts the music …
a piano's lid comes crashing down--the last note never sung.

Details | Italian Poem | |

Tobruk Siege

Tobruk  Siege

Rommel of the Blitzkrieg 
had Europe overcome
With the Stukas and dive bombing
And the Tanks that overrun

North Africka would see his tanks
il Duce’s troops were beat
Aussies took 20,000 Italians
At Tobruk in stinking heat

In Europe when his tanks arrived
The captured did surrender
The Poms escaped at Dunkirk
The English well remember

Morsehead an Aussie General
He baited the trap
Strategic  mines, artillery, cooks
manned Italian guns , and ack ack.

Tobruk the Panzer tanks came in
The rats went down their holes       (Desert Rats Aussie Diggers said Lord Haw Haw)
They rose behind the tanks
Wehrmact soldiers bullet holed

25 pounders fired at just point blank
with cooks and Pommy Armour 
Were thinning German ranks
true blue these little charmers
So they blew the turrets off 
16 of the best
Unbeaten until this point
A trace of fallen crest

8 long months they dished it out
Though Rommel tried again ……….(lost just as many tanks again)
He had to wait till the Aussies left
To take Tobruk from them

Don Johnson

70 years ago, the Afrika Korp would attack the 14,000 Aussies and Tommy Tank men,  Also known as Rats.
The Tanks rolled into the perimeter, Aussies sprang from their holes and fought the German Soldiers behind the tanks, “We shut the gate behind them” the Aussies said.
This thorn in the side in Rommel ‘s mind allowed time for the massive replacement of
armour destroyed by Rommel, with American tanks.          The siege held for 240 days in
what is now  today’s , Gaddafi’s Lybria.   These  Aussies were used to living rough
sleeping on the ground 
walking from town to town in the great depression, they were brought up on roo or pig shooting  and the occasional rabbit. 

Details | Italian Poem | |

Amongst the Dross

Starring into the dross of amber brew
no face see I reflected, simply hollow I.
The stein of crystal tells no fortune spare,
nor one of bounty, yet what is true?
With drink, I dredge the pain of life anew
and wallow in the grain of cheaper wares, 
degrade myself and blame fate, for my strife,
ignoring all God's gift, so loud I cry, 
as salted tears stain trails of my despair.
If only, I had been a better wife
I'd not be sitting here. 

Form: Curtal Sonnet [A precurser to the Italian Sonnet]
abcabcdbcd c [10 1/2 lines]