Chinrest in place I begin to play my violin and the whole world
disappears....
an appassionato moment of pure delight, among the chaos of
a swallowing ocean !
Dreams I never dared dream pour out like blood, at the cusp of
a massive drowning;
Titanic of 1912, a collision of magnitude proportion between
ice and steel,
the thrum of dying bodies pummeling down into the sea.
She was beautiful, a broken fire in the middle of the
Adriatic Sea...
He a Jack of the arts a poor man with a lucky card
then there was J Bruce Ismay, a coward
with a license to preach, a self appointed God,
who placed greed in front of life and progress...
I play on, " Nearer, My God, to Thee"
my music becomes my last will and testament,
as my feet sink and my soul leaves my body
I play for the God who saves,
I play for the drowning victims,
and I play for the sea, that taketh me
A BEAUTIFUL LATIN GIRL
From South America I
Find a girl gifted and
endowed with beauty
My humble Latin woman
Of great and terracious honour
Eyes like a tempest blue sea
So pure and chaste
Like Adriatic sea.
Soft body like dew on
Evergreens Flowers
So clean without blemish
Black hairs like a fur
So long like the Nile
Attractive like a magnet
Thousands heart it melts
A woman filled with intelligence
So calm and meek
Tender like a lamp
Not a peacock
So humble and brave
Oh Latin girl
Naturally endowed
With amazing figure
And enormous melons
That supplies quality nutrients.
Like a juice
With spaces between
Her actions
As shade for whoever
She marries
Angelic Latin shinny girl
Like an ivy
Tall like mount Everest
With head to the sky
She is a Latin girl
Can't you see her beauty
I wish you can get one
A latin girl.
Essence of night graces senses on balcony caressed
in fairest moon. A serenade of longing scrolls over depths
of love downstream to the Adriatic. All prudence portrayed
in austere daylight, forbid love. Yet, darkness holds music
flowing to paramour’s heart. Starry-eyed, an ethereal
sonnet climbs rose trellis to touch poetic soul destined to
dim as operatic dreams surrender to eternity.
Written 6/20/20
Contest – On Broadway
Sponsor – Nette Onclaud
Bored Praying To My Lord
Had been sitting around very bored,
When I started praying to my Lord;
Cutting saws;
A lost cause;
Help me write book with fine forward.
Jim Horn
Was sailing on sea think Adriatic;
Started receiving a lot of static;
On the fringe,
Of writing binge;
Andrea wrote poems in her attic.
Jim Horn
A night in Venice (in sotto voce)
Moonlight shimmers over the Adriatic sea
Stars dancing on the waves in perfect symmetry
We talk of ancient adventure and gallantry
Masquerading dancers begin to fill the street
Smiling as they parade by, shuffling their feet
Unconsciously, we both are swaying to the beat
Inside the trattoria*, the music man plays
Vivaldi's concerto #4, in piano forte
We whisper murmurs of love in sotto voce*
As Casanova visions keep flooding my mind
Vivaldi's music syncopates in double time
Decoding my glances, your eyes begin to shine
We took a water taxi, back to the Hotel
We kiss under the Rialto bridge, passion swells
What we did the rest of the night, I'll never tell
Our night in Venice was a passionate affair
Put on your black dress and pearls, and take me back there.
*trattoria small dining establishment not a full menu like a restaurant
* sotto voce in an undertone, literally low voice (pronounced vo chee)
December 14,2016
Talismanic turbans trade togas. How great. Short grin large grin. Big beam. And now an elephant in baggy trousers dancing. Peachtree waving. Chutney calling. Tantric trade. Tanks. Till not a tailor. Traditionalists trumpeting. One six zero. And a purple patterned silk cloth. Rice dance then. Kilowatt jewels. Oooh sparkly. Good. Hahahaha green relish. Hahahaha many many many many turrets. Xxxx Adriatic sea. *** corrosional. Z
A cat on a baking tray does not require a lid or a helmet. And driving very fast is good for a fish knife. Laughter omitting from wheeled floating spoons but powerful cutlery drawers can match the detailed senses and avenues of symmetry. Adriatic quantities in kettles, teapots and microwaves. How rather fascinating it is to watch an orb on a bin. When a dust cart has over six hooves it is time to brush. Ho ho ho said a fourteen foot mop bucket with teeth. Grim grin grin then. Hoping horses hurry haven. And so popular is an ideology of a very small beetroot. Dancing in a curry. Fathom not a weather forecast. And believe not the ramblings of scones. Exonerated economic exploitation eases erotically erupted explosions exactly. And a weapon won is akin to a vibrating disco ball . Whoosh then. Whooshing wholeheartedly agree said a cement. Hahahaha love to the known hahahaha matching mattresses' hahaha weaving. Xxxx and dare not mix a bee with a bean. Xxxx denominationally x zzzzzzz. 6%
O Serenissima,*fabled city
guarding the bluest lagoon, remain
the Queen of the Adriatic Sea;
on a gondola I glide while
the gondolier sings to luminous stars.
Under bridges of moonlight,
mysteries increase by the dozen;
standing on the Bridge Of Sighs,
a fair-haired girl leans forward
blowing kisses to a gorgeous boy
who stops and smiles back tenderly.
On the topmast he awaits early daylight,
unfurled sails excite his spirit never
fraught. He looks back for a last time,
surroundings whet his curiosity;
behind him stand buildings of break
and stone that have endured time's fury.
The eastern sun comes up slowly,
he rubs his moist eyes and sighs;
his tall ship is ready to depart
for lands rich of exotic spices;
they will be traded for linen
textiles and beautiful glassware.
Months will pass, probably years,
a wrinkle or two will appear
on his sun-tanned forehead
beneath his fluttering red velvet hat;
he will think of Venice before sleep-
the sublime dream of a wealthy merchant.
* Serenissima: The most serene
In the tower of poems
Singing about everything under the sun
His eyes like the Adriatic sun
He travelled with beauty
And danced with it
Till the end of life
Till the end of love
Moonlight was the only light to make streaks across
a sky full of suspense which even a thief was afraid of;
and as I dragged you along lamp-lit, narrows streets,
we seemed two ghosts wearing human masks...
but what was on our delirious minds, if not love?
Your wish was to be on the Ponte Dei Respiri to sigh and dream...
while viewing that moon with new eyes to catch that rare gleam,
but the quickest way to get there was to wave down a gondolier! But there was
no space as thousands of people, wearing masks, were riding in those gondolas...
without despairing, we stopped on the nearest bridge and passionately kissed!
I resembled the Phantom of the Opera without that disfigured face;
you seemed like the seductive Dodge's wife so glamorous and gleeful,
and your mask was of the loveliest blue as the sky over the Adriatic Sea...
when Saint Mark's bells rang and doves flew to revive their past glory.
Oh, darkness endure more to let our memory always be a night in Venice!
Entered in Nette Onclaud's contest,
" It's Mask Time "
Written by Andrew Crisci
the rain falls hard and the puddles rise deep
your interest in me is faltering steep
I try to make the difference by splitting it in two
but my heart hasn't the strength mentally due
the energy sails quickly down the floodways
your pace keeps steady throughout the days
twilight brings the notions so freely back
and now you fit in so well without your tact
the sounds are clouding the crimson air
our kinship dwindles to not even there
I reach for answers to fill in the thoughts
till the day that my contentment is finally sought
adriatic fortunes told so frugal and bold
our manic sessions were initially told
twilight keeps time of what fashion spent
in good spirit of an ephemeral felt gent
Creativity given to a pen
moved by a thoughtful man,
divulges ideas with a steady rhythm...
not minding noises, just writing what pleases him.
Find him dreaming on a deserted island in the Adriatic Sea,
laying on a soft blanket woven by patients hands;
see him wearing classic, dark shades seen in a famous movie...
implementing thoughts too sober for pretense.
Creativity given to a pen
guided by his swift fingers in constant movement
composes another poem with a new arrangement;
why is he a prisoner of his own den?
Have a conversation with him on a breezy noon,
share his favorite drink, which is a burgundy wine
made from local grapes dangling on the vine...
he will explain the realistic tone of his lampoon.
Creativity given to a pen is to express
with artfulness and astuteness each mode;
read his works and try to unlock his code...
you' ll be amazed at what you'll find in your quest.
Wading in waters
Tainted as Mexico's Gulf
Yet creek bed shallow
Flaling in waters
Murky as an old river
Qualms rising chest high
Drowning in waters
Falling like Niagara
Adriatic deep
Drifting on waters
From a self-inflicted wound
Atop bundled sticks
Crossing the waters
With ripples of her blue funk
On the horizon
Guns and knives,
parties up all night.
Say you have nothing to lose.
Girls in short skirts
who don't care what you're worth.
You only want whats bad for you.
I wanna love you.
Be with me, be with me.
You have plans too.
You'll leave me, just leave me.
The water beneath the Adriatic sky
is filled with the tears you cannot cry.
You'll...just...die
without love like mine.
I wanna love you.
Be with me, be with me.
You only want whats bad for you.
You'll leave me, just leave me.
If you hurt yourself, then hurt me too.
I wanna...be hurt with you.
You should be with me, be with me.
Be with me.
911
West Gaza Strip...
911
Muslim Islam Arab
911
IRAQ
911
Adriatic Sea
911
Nostradamus
911
Mongols
911
Baghdad
911
0800 IRAN
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