Sestina Family Poems | Sestina Poems About Family

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Details | Sestina |

MIRACLE AT DAWN

No mother would fill up her eyes with tears of woman...
if it weren't for God performing a miracle at dawn,
as she cried out in joy and held her baby in trembling arms
but shed many sweet tears hearing his laughter so loud;
oh, he couldn't see her mommy's face through his tiny eyes,
and it will be long before he'll will utter the first word, " Mom." 

Now that baby sleeps under the attentive look of his mom,
who's too young to become a mature woman;
many visions of this birth crossed her gleeful eyes
she dreamed of the very same words whispered at each dawn,
repeating them in her silly head as if they sounded too loud...
while cradling a pretty doll in her folded arms.

Will she be welcomed home by her parents opening their arms?
Will they reprimand her and not consider her a legal mom?
Perhaps they will not be angry and speak not so loud:
girls are supposed to be girls, not suddenly turn into woman...
So this innocent girl, deceived by a bad boy, must wake up at dawn
when her baby cries and feed him with scary, childish eyes?

Nights seem longer for her, trying to stay awake rubbing her eyes,
what she beheld in those exciting eyes, now it's a burden in her weary arms;
she remembers that pain was too unbearable, but joy more sublime at dawn...
how will she learn how to care for the infant by watching her mom?
She must have seen a nursery or read a book how to think like a real woman,
and can anyone imagine how she keeps that secret instead of revealing it loud?

She must gather enough courage inside to feed her baby who can't cry loud,
but for now she must carry that baby without sighs of distress into her bright eyes;
and her parents can see the changes making her a loving person already woman;
they may ask questions to why she has gained weight and holds dolls in her arms...
no, they aren't anticipating great news and in doubt, they await a splendid dawn.

Mother and daughter closely together amazed by the coming dawn,
any concealed secret can be easily spoken...somewhat joyful and loud;
they imagine the infant's futures will be part of grandma and mom!
Their reunited hearts come together to show love in their delighted eyes,
and they'll take turns feeding the new-born, tenderly lulling him in their arms;
what if forgiveness hadn't been there to deny her all of the joys of woman?

Would a mother deny her daughter compassion as a good woman?
Even God hurried dawn to offer that gift into her gracious, tender arms...
and those arms accepted it with the gentleness and kindness of mom.



Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010



Details | Sestina |

The Maid, the Magpie and the Mirror

Gazing, at its own reflection is the Magpie.
A magic bird, a mystical creature, with a soul
and the power to see things, the power of scrying.
It sees a tomb in ancient Egypt. It sees death.
A soul locked within a glorious bronze mirror,
Cleopatra and her Maid in a bond unbroken.

Time passes in silence as deep as the unbroken
promise of endless wisdom, gifted by the Magpie.
whose caws the Maid hears, within the depths of the mirror,
calls to the Queen, her Cleopatra, to her soul.
Magpie speaks to She on the Eastern Barge in the afterlife of death,
and to her Maid entombed. The sacred bird so near scrys.

The Magpie sits within oasis staring into the pool. It scrys
for all this time, its vigil, its protection, never broken.
Even when the sarcophagus is carried to the necropolis of the dead,
without, unknown, the bird speaks wisely through reflection, her Magpie.
Entombed, his Queen and her Maid, their bodies but not their souls,
Queen, Maid and Magpie, each cast a last gaze, alive within the mirror.

The Vows of Innocence, the Maid bespeaks the mirror.
Pleas to the Swallower of Shades, both Queen and Maid have scried
to The Burning One, and claim no lie, upon their soul.
As the light dims within the Maids eyes, in tomb unbroken,
she sees the life of her Queen and their Magpie
pass fast upon the brass, last breath of life and dying.

Oh, too soon the end, moans the Maid, I am dying.
Her life's reflection moves bronzed upon the mirror.
She screams, "My Queen," but hears only the caw of Magpie.
All around her other servants succumb and cry, whilst she sits scrying,
and the Magpie flies above in life entombed, eternity, unbroken.
As she beseeches all the Gods to save her soul.

The Magpie's spirit self moves within the mirror's soul.
He swoops gathering Cleopatra's essence, past the dying,
and brings her to the Maids side unbroken.
In afterlife upon the Eastern Barge they join the mirrored
whole, for he, the bird of magic, Magpie, has called and scried
it so. Part light of life, part dark of death, the Magpie.

The essence of each entwine united within this eternal mirror
for the Magpie cannot bear their deaths. He will protect and forever scry
in life the mirror sits unbroken a stolen bauble, and in it they dwell with the Magpie.




Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Window

The father has left the family, 
To chart new territories somewhere 
So the mother looks to God for strength 
To bring up her little girl 
Who will only get the best she vows 
While watching the child play from the window 

She ponders how life is like a window
Through which to frame the beauty of family
Even in the face of broken vows
The family can exist somewhere
Solidly developing a little girl
Who will never lack in strength.

She worries that without this strength,
She will see something different in that window:
A tarnished and hollow girl,
Destroyed because a father eschewed a family
To live a different life somewhere,
Never to be bothered by vows.

She has since made many new vows
Especially to guide her daughter with strength,
Like wise light shining from somewhere
Straight through an open window
To give assurance to the youngest of a family,
Who will one day be much more than a girl.

One day when her daughter is no longer a girl,
The mother hopes there will be exchange of new vows,
Based on strong foundation of family. 
The chosen spouse will be a man of strength:
Always remaining in the frame of that window;
Caring for family, not desiring to go off somewhere.

The daughter will become a woman who has been somewhere,
That challenged her to face what was missing as a girl.
However, she will take a closer look back through that window,
Clearly seeing all the love and wisdom made in vows
By a mother constantly praying for strength
To create for her daughter a true family. 

A clock chimes from somewhere, interrupting thoughts of vows.
The mother takes one last look at her girl, who will grow up in strength,
Before turning away from the window, to go enjoy being with family.

Copyright © Terry-Ann Coley | Year Posted 2013



Details | Sestina |

Sestina

Quite often it seems we tell kids, it’s best to be first
They sign up for fun; parents, it seems, for the fame
Whether it’s academics or sports, why not just let kids thrive?

Create environments for learning and fun needed to thrive
Nurture with affection and love; be their springboard first
Build the foundation they will need to handle future fame

A solid foundation will ensure an easy adjustment to fame
In any circumstance, self- assurance makes anyone thrive
Teach them, the game of life is not won by coming in first

Good character first, may lead to fame in which anyone can thrive
~*~

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sestina |

A Boatful of Hope

Day has sunk and the old fisherman, like a well-trained athlete, rows his rugged boat.
Defying starry night's turbulent waves,
It cruises seaward, smooth and swift, like an agile proud fish.

Then, into his net a shooting star drops; hauls he a thousand delicate, bright starfish.
Guided by remaining stars, he comes home with a boatful
Of glimmering soft, fleshy crystals of hope to his daughter's eager waving

At the murky, starless bay. Her voice rushes out in tidal sound-waves.
She puts a finger in, fishing
One live hope, stellar and warm, out of what used to be a champion's sailboat.

Rocking the boat and making waves, their laughter splashes like a floundering fat fish.

(Form: loose tritina)

Copyright © Adam Adhistian | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sestina |

family affair

Family Affairs 

Uxorious 
Devotion to wife 
Dotingly
Submissive 
Sounds like a serious offence 
In the dictionary 



Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

The Little Prince of Our House

Our excitement to have you in our life
That you deserve a regal retreat inside our house
This once dark room spruced up with chic bedroom

With soaring peaked ceiling overlooking your bedroom
The wall with trompe l’oeil effect that’s how you furbished our life
Fixed window overlooking vast vistas of the modern house

Dark mahogany furniture lined up inside the house
A forest-green bed crown to lay down on your bedroom
In vibrant hues, you have transformed our life

How blessed our life that within our house, we built a bedroom for our little prince



February 15, 2013

Copyright © Noel Villarosa | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sestina |

Sestina for a Forgotten Cousin Midget

Sestina for a Forgotten Cousin Midget

Kids are midgets
Like gnats, infested around the water
Melons buried in ice
Moms mixing up grape and lime Kool-Aid
Smoke smolders from reddened charcoal
Hot dog buns muffle family reunion noise

From the bath house comes a noise
Like some frozen midget
Who is lost, not smelling the reunion-warm charcoal
Small eyes water
Cousins curl their necks swallowing Kool-Aid
That slips down their throats like ice

The bath house midget shivers, turning to ice
Blue, making a whining noise
He doesn’t beg for Kool-Aid
He was with the other midgets
But didn’t leave the water
Until he thought of barbeque charcoal

Eyes wide, black and warm like charcoal
He doesn’t see the watermelon on ice
Or the purple and green water
Cousin midgets’ fingers play in Kool-Aid with slurping noise
Frightened wet midget
Doesn’t see the hotdogs and Kool-Aid

A parent drops her glass of grape Kool-Aid
Another slips his fork into the charcoal
Runs to the soaked, crying midget
A small cousin sucks on ice
His is the only noise
The sound of slurping tongue and water

The crying one looks at the swimming water
And at the grape and lime Kool-Aid
Picking his nose, a sniffling noise
Hungry for hot dogs over charcoal
And watermelon over ice
Feeling like a forgotten midget

He was in the water when he smelled the picnic charcoal
The others ran for Kool-Aid and melon ice
Reunion noise forgot their cousin midget
 

Copyright © Jeff Reed | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sestina |

Inner Child

In the unrestrained laughter of children,
is the exalted, purity of joy.
Just seeing that first Crocus of the Spring
or kittens, their antics, exuberant.
You can't help but smile, in wonderment,
at the abundance of simple pleasures.

To watch vibrant sunsets, brings great pleasure.
As does a phone call, from both my children.
I'll recall their eyes, filled with wonderment,
and their squeals, as fresh snow fall, brought pure joy.
Their young minds, bounding with exuberance,
playing outside, in the warm days of Spring.

I love new baby animals at spring.
Their mothers, showing them off, with pleasure.
Playing, jumping, with such exuberance.
I am happy to have all the children,
with which to share these adventures and joy.
To see their eyes, grow big in wonderment.

I remember my own childhood wonders.
Seeing big rainbows in the skies of Spring.
Hearing birds, in the morning, sing with joy.
Watching mom, tend her roses, with pleasure.
My Grandmother, would send out us children,
to go play and use up our exuberance.

Now it's Grandchildren, with exuberance,
that find, in their lives, so much to wonder.
See the world through the eyes of a child,
the seasons; Winter, Fall, Summer and Spring.
I can't think of anything more pleasant,
than to watch them, their lives, filled with such joy.

Life in the desert, has brought me much joy.
Thunderstorms, beat my heart, exuberant.
My heart and soul, revived, with the pleasures.
Rugged beauty, fills my mind with wonder.
As life giving rains, that herald the Spring,
welcomes all of natures newborn children.

I find joy and exuberance abound,
in the pleasures and wonders within life.
That spring forth, from the child, within me.



For the contest:  Joy To The World
Placement: 6th





Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Stay At Home Mom

I spend my time changing diapers
Wiping tiny faces and drying little tears
My days are filled with giggles and wails
Nights are symphonies of snuggles and hugs
Never do I get time off or a needed vacation
Even sick days are not granted to my position

But I would never leave my position
Not even if it meant no more diapers
Or a three week long tropical vacation
I don't mind quieting the tears
I love getting paid in kisses and hugs
Though I could still do without the wails

I would love peace but I take the wails
Because they come as part of the position
They are often at least paired with the hugs
Yes, I get tired of wet, stinky diapers
But I get to be there to ease the tears
And a toothless grin is better than a vacation

Time at the park is like an all day vacation
Sometimes those days pass with no wails
And unless we skin a knee even no tears
Then we get to cuddle in a sleepy position 
With sand and gravel still stuck to the diapers
Holding each other tight in hour long hugs

I love when they wake up and bring me hugs
Naps are my own little mommy vacation
Then off come grimy shirts and wet diapers
Of course taking off tops always bring wails
Until they see the bath toys all in position 
Then immediately giggles replace the tears

We scrub away dirt and wash away tears 
Wrap up in soft cotton towels and hugs
These are the moments I love my position
And cannot image why I would need a vacation
Then clothes being put on bring still more wails
As they wiggle and turn while I fasten diapers

Soon they won't need me for tears and I'll be able to take a vacation
But I'll miss all the hugs and I'll even miss the I need you wails
So I'll cherish every moment of my position until the next stinky diapers

Copyright © Christi Kopp | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Idella's Gift

There are smells and sights and tastes which always remind 
of Grandma with her rows of flowers bright,
the red of poppy the gladiolas white, the blue of spring violets vain 
the scent of lilacs in the air and pine needles in the mix.   
Sometimes too, the memory of her sweet breath does rise 
of Black Jack gum or peppermint and all those summer times.

The search for new spout dandelions the mushrooms other times
And summer’s end brought black blue teeth a blueberry’s remind.
We’d dig for bait with cans of tin, Idella, grandma mine, and rise
from ‘neath the patched quilts of calico so bright.
By chance to fish within the stream, trout in our breakfast mix
along with silly shaped pancakes so placed on china vain.

The beauty of her sky blues eyes never was so vain
that wisps of salt and pepper hair gave time
its only claim. To rise like yeast a child within this mix
to hear a bark of terrier and feel Babe’s tongue remind
of childhood days a Grandma’s house. Idella our bright
find. Take those blessed tender hands and rise

Touch childhood cheek like dough of white and rise
have no dark dwelling thoughts of blue blood in the vein
the thinness of her fragile skin the dimmed light so bright
just remember love full of the better times.
And with the scent of venison and sizzling pans remind
laced with home made butter, fried onions in the mix.

How had Idella’s loveliness from German bloodlines mixed
together with the stalwart Grandpa Trussell’s rise
to birth the lively bunch of child my Mom’s remind?
When in the dark of night the rush of red rolls through my vein
mind light flies and flickers like the candle flame of time
and I return on winged horse within a dream so bright.

Smell the wood smoke from the stove caste iron bright.
See the siblings teasing cat and dog within the mix.
The mantle clock’s brass pendulum sings in time.
Hear the winter wind blow through the rafter’s rise
like tucked in chicks the storms blew all in vain,
now only grand kids live these tales and do remind.

Always in the darkest times I think of my Idella bright
and Gram reminds me of both joy and sorrow’s mix
soon like the wind on weathervane I'll rise to heaven and her kiss.



Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

"Reflections of the Season's Tomorrows"

Reflections of the Season’s Tomorrows

Wondering how long before tomorrow.
Watching the door every time someone passed.
Trembling hands reached out for a moments joy. 
Her rosy cheeks and eyes were now faded.
Weeping, sitting in her room, she looked around.
Her aged heart had been for children waiting.

Ever since they left, she had been waiting.  
Promising, they said, “We’ll come tomorrow.”  
Reflections of the seasons shone around.  
But in her heart lived pain as each day passed.  
Her memories and delights, now, somehow faded.  
As youngsters they had been her only joy.  

Too much time gone; she could not feel their joy.  
So many of her days spent hoping, waiting. 
Her utmost fear was that their love had faded. 
She thought that there would not be a tomorrow. 
The sparkles in her eyes had all but passed.  
She spent each lonesome day dazed, looking around. 

Suddenly, they were there, children all around!
For the first time in years, she regained her joy –
One by one, she hugged them; loving glimpses passed.  
The time had come for which she had been waiting.  
Her dream arrived; at last it was tomorrow.  
Pain that she had felt forgivingly faded. 

Thankfully, love for them had not faded.  
Her gleaming eyes sent adoration around.  
All thanked God above for this new tomorrow.  
Grandchildren bounced balloons squealing with joy.  
It happened on a day she wasn’t waiting.  
One by one, the children kissed her as they passed.  

Each caring look joined reality; time passed.  
Her fragile squeeze showed them love had not faded 
Although she had been tirelessly waiting, 
There is happiness with family around. 
She knew, for the first time in some years, joy!  
Reflected gleams sparkled on her tomorrow.  

Too fast, the moments passed; holiday lights faded
There was no more waiting; loved ones came around.
Love redeemed joy, each today and tomorrow.



©  November 19, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen 


Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

The Heart of Poverty

Once upon a time, mother was gifted new life.
Reformed, reborn the second child to poverty, 
through the coldness of a Maine winter came beauty.
A fair Eve to her brothers Adam construction
her bloom was destined for a fresh spring being
and her eventual undoing awaits at death.

And, so she was born from the stark darkness of death
and raised on the undone leavings of old life.
Grandma brought bright sunlight with all of her being.
Granddad culled the forest deer to dress their poverty.
A thin walled lake cabin, a homes base construction
housed a family full of fine children’s beauty.

Field and forest with flower and tree were her beauty.
The doe, the buck, the rabbit bought life from their death.
The harshness of this life brought forth angry constructions,
razor strap beatings on small white behinds laced their lives.
Fishing, gardening canning and sewing relieved poverty
In time love came for her dancing into being

The Big One WWII brought my Dad to being
Auburn hair and chocolate eyed was Mom’s beauty
Her handmade clothes sewn with the art poverty
The war had brought them all too close to death
Lovers grasp at the gift they’re given, gifted life
and a new family of country and city was constructed.

Fifty years more , she was given, in this soul construction
tearful years of longing for a different being
with little joy at home, the family of this life
denying the world outside the walls the beauty
not even accepting the end of pain her death
Her gift to me, knowledge, I live not in poverty.

Mom died on a cold wet January day in poverty.
Her poverty was of money and not of love’s construction
at her tidy bed sitting with her hand in mine she died.
“Oh, I wish it were so, and then not, with all my being”
Not all of her treasures gone, for her children’s beauty
remains, their love had not left her throughout her life.

Though in reality Mom lived a short time in poverty being
but the construction of even that poorest plight was always beautiful.
And what is death really once through the pain but rich new life.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

The UPbeat...

Before there was a word, 
there was a loneliness
within the pin pricked night.
Waves of vibrations, sound,
coalescent’s gestate.
Planets were birthed with souls.

There was only the soul
and a longing for words,
synapses gestating
wavelengths of loneliness,
the aching lack of sound,
and the celestial night.

Man was born to midnight
with eyes and ears for soul
to din’s discordant sound,
no harmony, no words,
aging, aching, alone,
thoughts thus, wordless, gestate.

Circular gestation
for the day became night
and weakened loneliness,
woman kind brought her soul.
Ether resounded with words
for those souls, the God sound.

Strong, sweet, silibant sound
released from gestation
song formed from combined words,
crooning fills the nubile night
joining of mated souls.
The Word freed loneliness.

No longer alone, vibrating within the sound each atom relates to the soul 
Gestation continues in the never-ending cycle of night and the Word.

*dedicated to L'nass Shango & David Smalling for their inspiration.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

A Daughter's Sestina

In the company of a mouthful of silence, I resort to chattering with the wind; Whose carefree fingers grace the freezing leaves, That once were green, now dry and white, Falling to the ground where gravity holds Souls; awaiting births, day and night I remember a soul I once knew, tonight; While with open eyes I lie in silence; Restlessly seeking for something to hold-- Something more solid than a blowing wind-- A pillar, perhaps, or steel bones of white, That couldn't decay like departed leaves My pillar now lies under the white leaves-- I wonder if he hears my prayers each night? Does his hair still grow, are his teeth still white? Was he there with me in my lonesome silence? Has he stood beside me or upon the wind? These-- and many more-- my weary mind holds Sadness from childhood that my heart still holds-- I'm not sure when, but one day it will leave; My heart be lighter than the wind, I'll dream of hopeful days all night; My tears won't fill my peaceful silence, My mind, lit up like neon white For I have with me, a pillar of white Who's been there for me, to help and to hold; Though more than once we kept our silence, I knew her love would never leave; Her prayers kept me safe through the night; Her embrace, encircled me like the wind My father's voice I'll restore in the wind; Along with his smile, so happy, so white; No longer will I cry for my loss, night after night; Instead, what I have, I'll cherish and hold-- Nobody knows whose going to leave; Who will be sent first into the silence.. Tonight, silence's been broken by the wind, That comes and leaves in flashes of white; Heartfull of memories, to hold on through the night. ~*~

Copyright © Green Leaf | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Angel to Beast

Raised to believe she was beautiful and special
a look in the mirror reveals a ferocious beast,
with empty eyes and a sinister smile.  Wicked
thoughts fill the head of the angel
in disguise whose eyes used to sparkle until she became addicted
to booze and her best friend Mary Jane.  Origami

swans fill every nook and cranny.  Origami
creations, folded neatly from paper, hold a special
meaning to the girl who is addicted
not only to Mary Jane, but heroin, that ferocious beast
that goes around stealing lives like the one of that angel
in disguise, turning even the most innocent people into wicked

monsters who care only about themselves.  Wicked 
hangovers don't stop her from making origami
swans because they take her back to the days she was an angel,
when her mom and dad loved her, told her she was special.
Now when they see her, they weep at the beast
she has become and long for the days before she was addicted

to Mary Jane, heroin, LSD.  They wonder how she became addicted
to so many things when the little girl they raised didn't have a wicked
bone in her body.  They wonder who the beast
is that wrecked their daughters life.  Origami
swans, folded carefully, precisely, for someone special.
Every nook and cranny full, she fills bags full for her angel,

wanting to give the most amazing gift to her angel,
the gift of time.  Time is all she has on her hands.  Addicted
to shrooms, Mary Jane, booze, she knows she is nothing special, 
she longs for the days before that wicked
man came along and taught her how to fold origami
swans while smoking weed, snorting coke, turning her into a beast

that nobody wants to be with.  Now that she is a beast
she can't be with her daughter, her angel.
Her daughter loves swans.  It is her daughters birthday.  Origami
swans are all she folds, until her fingers bleed, addicted
to Mary Jane, she smokes herself to oblivion all because of the wicked 
man who never made her feel special.

The wicked man who got that angel
addicted to Mary Jane, and taught her to make origami
swans was her boyfriend Bobby, the beast who never made her feel special.

Copyright © Roxanne Schroeder | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Moonlight Adventure

The beautiful day begins in the house.
At the end of it, all that’s left of it is the moon,
Shimmering in all the night’s light.
A door to another world opens.
The only movement is a page turning in a book. 
Suddenly, without notice, an inconceivable object drops.
	
The thing jumps and twirls and once again drops.
A person from another time, the future, enters the large house.
The man, pacing back and forward, finally sends away the hovering book.
He magically transports it to the glistening moon.
Something like a black hole, a portal inexplicably opens.
The book vanishes in a fading yellow light.

The visitor sees something bright, a room full of light.
And inside, a piece of paper from the hands of a child drops.
The door of the room slightly, quietly opens.
A child and her grandmother are drawing and inscrutable house.
In a circle and a beam of inconceivable beauty appears the moon.
On the page, like the hovering object, once again, is the sight of a book.

The child explains that she has, many times that year, read the book.
But her grandmother slowly shows the girl the true “light”.
Now, the girl understands that she was wrong, and now appears the moon!
It comes closer and closer, and then, like a shooting star, down it drops.
The planet has gone down from the sky to have a conversation in the house.
The moon elegantly flies in, as large as an elephant, and its mouth opens.

And now all of the people come close together and a road opens.
The grandmother and child are guided by a rather large book.
In time, the home disappears; they have left the house.
The book vanishes, and all that leads them is a guiding light.
The key to a room, calmly, as if carried by the wind, drops.
“Come in and let’s have a talk,” says not a person, but a face in white, the moon.

The grandmother is surprised, for she is seeing the real, live moon.
A beautiful and long conversation through all the night opens.
Then as dawn arrives, blood-red, the tone of their voices drops.
Grandmother and child come out of the wonderful book.
Outside it is day, a new beginning, another lively light.
They walk o’er their field and talk till’ they reach the house.

In the morning, the otherworldly man leaves the house.
Also, he disappears in a now magnificent golden light.
That is the end; there are no more pages in this book.

Copyright © Alan Grinberg | Year Posted 2005

Details | Sestina |

MARY WAS THE POETESS

Mary was the poetess
who loved handsome Franco, 
the tall Neapolitan orchestra leader;
and in Naples they met:
at The Galleria Umberto,
under the surveillance of my father...  


Mary was barely eigtheen,
and writing was her only passion;
even her big, hazel eyes were
as light as the Tyrannean Sea in summer,
somehow too melanchonic as a fading moon,
which longed more for a friend than a lover!


Her first song was recorded in Milan, with a brilliant
production of composer Angelo Camis; 
that song became quite popular in Capo D'Istria,
and in all the booth-shaped Italian Peninsula!
Ermanna Melli from the city of Forli was the artist
with that mellow, sensual and expressive voice!


" What's this desire? " a delicate and spontaneous love song,
captured a large audience, both young and old...
it was a song telling of the emotions of a young heart too naive,
falling in love with someone much older that she was, indeed;
and it made many people cry, perhaps recalling the time 
they fell for someone as special and gorgeous as Mary's dream guy! 


Mary, your song still plays on the airwaves of that radio station and although
you no longer sing it in the manner of a famous virtuoso:  the visions 
of your past life become too real as you performed it by surprise;
it is the jewel you left on earth for us to remember you by,
and it immesely dazzles like every rainbow in the Capri's sky...
when an unknown tenor improvises his impassioned aria with an absolute sorrow!  


Mary was the poetess who dedicted her time
writing about love, but never found it in reality;
she was my oldest sister inspiring me with her creativity! 
Mary had the potential of becoming great and shine,
but the tides turned abruptly and fate wasn't kind:
even today, her fearless voice comes alive through her  poetry!  


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

SURVIVE BY HEEDING ADVICE

When the parents are gone,
the kids survive by heeding advice and carry on
their wishes by honoring their true intent;
flowers sprout and then bloom,
never living their fragile, little ones to a fateful gloom...
as sunshine nurtures them!


Glimpses may not give us a full image,
but they can reveal their glossary of life and death,
and it depends on us how to put it
into a consequent sentence and give meaning to it;
our parents raised us up to a certain standard,
hoping we'd pick up the slack where they left off!  


And will we be elated by parental pride,
by doing all things that are beautiful and honorable...
great things that endow us with exuberance and fortitude,
to conquer every boundary and win every battle? 
History can take us there, showing us the ones who fearlessly dared:
Moses who bashed rebellion and Jesus who lashed the whip! 


Many will stumbled on life's deception,
others will cautiously follow its trail to wisdom,
to find themselves acclaimed by glory 
and flourishing in their endeavors:  they will find immortality;
and if anyone was deceived by the notion...
that nothing outlasts us, they are completely wrong!


There's no greater joy than remembering
how our parents leaded a religious life without a spot,
believing that obedience was a reward for longevity; and was
God ever put out of their thoughts...not fortifying
their spirits and making them stand on a solid rock?
Foolish persons shouldn't be pitied for their self-inflicted wounds! 



The kids can survive by heeding advice, unfraidly facing their challenges,
alleviating their fears with the words that they received from the elders:
walking on a straight path, avoiding danger and harm, to live a golden youth
and a longer life...when most youngsters lose these to drugs and lust;
and with no gray hair on their heads and no stories to tell their granchildren,
who are the victorious ones that should declare thier well-merited crown?  


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

THE POSSESSIONS OF A YOUNGER AGE

Every boy has his toys,
and each girl her dolls;
and as they grow they are put away where light can't enter:
there in that closet, which often memory recalls
how delightful and merry their days were,
but wishing for a return is a constant, useless  prayer...



Everyone once had the possessions of a younger age,
some were precious and memorable, others simply painful and vacant; 
and who can remember being hugged and truly loved by all?
Many still reminisce the sad thought of having been offered none at all,
and how they longed to have felt a little, sweet taste! 
Nobody desired that more than I did, and only mother provided that!



Blue-bells seemed blither than I.. colored flowers that have no feel,
no soul to express their joy or sorrow, had I become like them?  
Larks and mockingbirds weren't as malcontent as I was indeed;
all they wished for was some rain and the quietest place to rest!
Oh, how much sympathy I felt...with no one loving them, but their Creator;
and my circumstances affirmed how true that really was for me to declare! 



An evil doer can be a father, who denies his children profound affection;
malice or thoughtlessness scars the hearts of the tender ones,
to become a malady or blight that leaves many fragments of broken lives;
and shouldn't someone grab them by the scruff of their necks, 
and put some sense into them when they intentionally induce pain?
This snarl...rebelled at such atrocity, although no slaps could prevent those tries!  


Husbands love your wives devotedly, 
mistresses are the cause of your adultery;
would the faithful ones pursue an extramarital affair?
And what are the consequences of your sin and surliness?
A curse from God for many generations,
to deny your little ones the possessions of a younger age!  


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

NO SCAR IS DEEPER THAN THIS ONE

When nobody embraced you to stop
those tears from falling and restore
your sense of existence which relied on prayer, 
not entirely on my comprehension and thought;
this guilt was my eternal damnation not
to have given an apology in a timely manner....


No scar is deeper than this one
when the weight of remorse can't be laid to rest,
long before I said all the unpleasant words,
I should have considered kindness,
and took a closer look at the pitiful one;
I ask myself how I resorted to madness!


Some men intentionally hurt their sweethearts,
feeling no compassion in their accusations,
and keep on lashing at them as if they were the guilty ones;
o most of us are the delirious fools acting on a stage without an audience,
where we don't see ourselves as we actually are, weakening the fortitudes
of those we should love and hold to our chests!


No scar is deeper than this one,
hidden in shame for the fear of revealing its pain...
somewhat indignant and reluctant to come out and face alone
the punishment for its malevolent intent;
and what can torment us is this conscience tarnished by stain,
so why be heartless and uncaring when love can heal our hurt?

     
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009