Best Adriatic Poems
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
Devastated at the news I've heard.
Totally shocked this is absurd
The passing of a Welsh legend
Proud to have served my butty friend.
He started his long career
As a proud Welsh infanteer
He then transferred to the Corps
His knowledge he used thats for sure
I first met taff in the Adriatic
In a place we all called FRY
Former Republic of Yugoslavia
For those that don't know why
Taff was known to do silly things
But one that comes to mind
Being pumped up a scam 12
Blind just leading the blind
He earned a commendation whilst in Afghanistan
As multiple commander he looked after every man
A real genuine gentle man who liked a practical joke
His favourite tipple was vodka and coke
The next verse is for you
Reading from above
I hope it hits a chord baloo
Also for those that you love
Gwneud hyn yn Gymraeg i chi er fy mod i'n teimlo'n las eich calon oedd calon y ddraig Gymreig chwedl a pharagon
Doing this in welsh for you
even though i'm feeling blue
your heart was that of the welsh dragon
a legend and a paragon
I apologize now if my grammar is wrong
Like butty would say you f*****g mong
When you served you were a "RELAY"
Not one if gods chosen what can I say
The black dog was on his shoulder
I know It's a crap place to be
I'm gutted brother soldier
You didn't shout out to me
My condolences to the family
The brotherhood does feel your pain
R.I.P Brother Mark Langley
Until we meet again
So save all of us a seat at the bar.
With Tony, Mac, Ange, to name but a few.
You have left behind your family and friends
We all miss you!!!!
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
Erstwhile his skin was beautiful as an obsidian, with great markings alongside his face, as was the likeness of the Benin people; an imagery so poignant and meaningful.
His shoulders were wide, his back strong and his mind resourceful.
In his quondam years, the mystery of the Niger River had captured his inquisitive soul and inspired his longings to ride the smooth waves in a Pirogue.
A tale far from the likes of any mythical apologue.
The spirit of his graceful and modest mother, who lovingly called him Baako, once hunted his dreams.
On his hard days and nights, his body cried out from pain and his cheeks were forced upon by relentless water streams.
His memory of his proud father of great strength and wisdom once pounded against his brain.
In an everlasting refrain.
Once, with recapturing flashbacks his mind was flooded with the taunting sounds of the water drums and sticcado.
Fast and sweeping rhythmic legato.
And his mind automatically reclaimed images of his village, with its thatched roof huts and rows of lifted cultured soils with beans and yams bedded deep, and grass of deeper green.
And the days long, and the sun harsh and the nights with brilliant white stars that convene.
There, he now lay face down on foreign land with its first winters snow.
With his life source seeping deep and wide into soft crystals giving it a crimson glow.
Tattered clothes revealed his back; etched with brutal markings liking that of an old twisted and leafless tree.
His calloused feet a grayish-blue as the Adriatic sea.
His last breath was a moan for his native land.
The Mother Land.
The harmony of his innate love for his country, his people, and his latent genius and powerful will has been dispersed, wasted and erased.
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
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
911
West Gaza Strip...
911
Muslim Islam Arab
911
IRAQ
911
Adriatic Sea
911
Nostradamus
911
Mongols
911
Baghdad
911
0800 IRAN
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.
I'd like to see Venice,
the city of eternal peace
to which poets and painters flock;
the sunset' hues are impressive at dusk.
I'd like to ride in a gondola,
and admire La Serenissima
while the venetian gondolier sings a familiar song
that everybody loves...row gentler as you sing!
I'd like to join the Venice Carnival, and be somebody's handsome groom,
on the most eerie night, when there's a crowd in the Marco Polo ballroom...
in the palace everybody wears a vague mask and a bizarre costume;
be aware of the friendly ones who, with charm, have the intention to lure.
I'd like to watch the luminiscent moon
rise over the Dome of Saint Mark's Basilica at night;
and for once without a visible, depressing spot...
it should smile at me while I croon.
I'd like to embrace that lovely woman
with eyes as green as the grass of a meadow;
and will she recognize me and forgive me again,
or sadly remain a broken-winged sparrow?
I'd like to bask in the warm sunshine
as the huge Adriatic sky becomes a real light blue;
and under Il Ponte dei Respiri I will glide
in that gondola as she lies next to me with a smile so true.
Translation: La Serenissima ( The Most Serene ),
Il Ponte dei Respiri ( Bridge Of Sighs ).
Entered in Linda-Marie Bariana's contest,
" Viva Vacation "
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.
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
Spellbound by the shimmering moonlight by the silent lagoon,
the oldest witness to every lover's secrets in enchanted Venice,
whispering soft words, afraid of being stolen by that stranger
who could be a wanderer or an intruder...
the dry leaves, beneath the drooping pine trees,
will crackle if he attempts to hear them too soon!
Moments lived into a silver night,
when the narrow streets are empty and dark
and the gondolas rest at the quite docks,
are as magical as the warm glow in these cheerful eyes;
and if our hands seem so frantic,
our quick thougths may be less romantic!
Following the trail of the ascending moon,
how loneliness is detected in her glance...
if we stare at her melancholic face!
And should we bring her a little comfort
by singing her the tune of a lovely song,
but how long will her presence loom?
Moments lived into a silver night...
are wonderfully remembered through a lifetime,
even more than that one unforgettable kiss...
while the gondolier rows the gondola through the canals
of a city that still withstands the fury of tides;
will another city be as beautiful as this?
We'll die before Venice will completely
disappear into the Adriatic Sea...
so let's cherish these moments of ecstasy,
and leave something to remember us by;
I'll write the words and the melody,
and you will sing it to her sweetly!
Moments lived into a silver night...
linger among these strong and old walls of Venice:
where the legendary Marco Polo slept,
where ordinary and famous people wept;
fall asleep on my chest and feel the sea-breeze,
by morning we'll be awaked by a brilliant light!
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
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
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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%
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