Della Poems

Written in Santa Maria della Vittoria

The feast, it happened, of Saints Peter and Paul.
I’d called in early, for a final look
at Saint Teresa in her cosy nook,
before the tourists made a shopping mall
of this delightful church. My plans on stall
(for Mass was under way), I soon forsook
my statue contemplation, since the hook
the sermon dangled caught me in its thrall.
Those two

Della Vossa

Patrick
   Jovial, Inquisitive, Wise and Poetic
    Brother of Brian, Daniel, Andrea, Mellissa, Jamil and Anwar
    Lover of Freedom, Poetry, and Video Games
    Who Feels Liberated, Strong, Bold
    Who Fears Swimming, Heights, Eggplant
    Who would like to see Jesus,

David Della

(Acrostic Haiku)

David's day's dine, drum
Atmosphere's admiration-
Visual's vastly view.

Indoor influence ink...
Doubling diet, desserts do date;
Duty draws design

Expanding earthly
Long life lasting lord's luxuries-
Let lungs love living.

Ace age apportioned,
Actualizing accolades
And act attributes.

Casa Della Pasta

from a street
in Cartagena
stepping
suddenly

into a 

restaurant
so Italian
surely i was
in a time warp

for i

i was still
in Colombia but
fooled by the food
so authentico

and even

the wine was 
from Italy so
after paying
my bill

instead

of using
the usual
gracias i just 
had to say

grazie

Santa Barbara Della Pizzeria

Divine and crunchy the pizzas that you serve,
Sweet the liqueurs I get but don’t deserve!
Your eyes are dark, and moist they are like dew,
Shooting darts with power to pierce me through.
Pardon please an odd and pious hope.
I think your case should come before the Pope,
I’m sure His Holiness would gladly canonize
One blessed with power to

La Benedizione Della Studio

Blessing the houses 
on easter eve day
through out the parish 
he sprinkled away

The priest stumbled upon
a studio door
where an artist was 
painting moments before.

He splattered the water 
all over the room
when artist returned 
and stated to fume. 

“What the hell are you doing? 
“You uncultured jerk.”
“who gave you the right
to alter my work?”

“You should be

Flowers of Tuscany-Fiori Della Toscana

Sunflowers turn slowly 
to follow the sun.
They bow their heavy heads 
when afternoon’s done.

What a golden vision 
they share row after row
With deep amber faces, 
their tiny seeds all aglow.

The summer breezes blowing 
o’er the fields with warm air
Shares pride in a country
with its beauty so fair.

I smile in contentment  
as I l leave

Il Fiore Della Bruma P5

The little boat of my intellect now sets sail,
To course through gentler waves,
Leaving behind her a sea so cruel.
There is no smoke beyond our wooden surface
And moonlight eases a dark
Void of wind, rain and storm
Leaving behind a most carnivorous tide.
The little flower of my dreams
The littered hope from dank descent
The light fury allure of the

Il Fiore Della Bruma P4

Mr. Visage of the manor, was often regarded in the highest esteem.
He lived in direct centre of the valley
Lauded his walls with fine antiques and trinkets;
Gold plated vases of crushed ice
Refilled by the hour.
Ebony perfumes
Travelling in thick cloud, like a rich fog of delight
Or marvel atleast.
His walls were only thin bamboo,
And he visited the villagers

Il Fiore Della Bruma P3

Eyes are a beauty like no other,
Where your deepest sense shines like lustrous glass;
The perfect crystal structure,
A divine un-shattered over easeful stars.

Today I looked upon the light.

Today I woke from a heavy slumber
With memory much the same as dreams,
Blinds had been lifted,
And I draw my stillness
Towards the feathered window release.

I pour each breath to this

Il Fiore Della Bruma P2

Bright Lotus of the lily pad
Let it be known who fears the fall
You who all would uphold in slumber
Blind to a gaze refrained or stalled.
Amongst this lonely block of figures and sand
And thick, heated lines
You glide across water in whispers;
The divine scope of earthly kind.
You I had watched from this embankment
For days on end without

Il Fiore Della Bruma P1

In a moment, a lapse of anguish
Through the sanded markets that
The mind implored.
Dust coughed up
And crystallised silence;
Each moan and cry
Of every wrapped face
Became a whisper,
As blood might echo an unheard drip
Into a lake of cold concern.
I do not know how the street kings felt
For upon re-opening they continued much the same;
Decrepit focus on none but

Della

She doesn't deserve this.
Alone, after fifty-odd years
Married to him.
Alone, too attached to her home
To leave it to live with a son
In a place strange to her.
Alone,  still talking to the husband
Who has been dead a year now.
In a moment of clarityy, she realizes he is gone
And feels compelled to visit him
At the cemetery.
Down the

Her Name Is Della

Her name is Della, when she meows
she sounds like a squeaky toy and 
looks like a pot belly pig.
Her fur is as black as can be eyes of
gold that sparkle like diamonds.
Once she had been lost but now she 
lives with me bringing me more joy and
happiness than I could ask for.
Her name is Della,

L'Amore Della Morte

Even death cannot escape the clutches,
Of this thing called,
Love.

• Short Della Poems
• Famous Della Poems
• Best Della Poems
• Read Della Poems
• Long Della Poems
• Della Quotes