Hear-tell, that one beamy night,
so very long ago,
an angel with wings of light
held the thought of creation in
a glow – with angel might held
up, this vision bright, long before
a rooster-crow, long before a sun
to show – long before green things
had reason to grow.
Gods were contemplating destiny
Long before a Cosmos set free
Long before earth was given sight
Long before the firmament, right
With all of time yet no one knew
What an earth should do --
Create man in our image?
For Popeye we will have spinach?
For the Jews Machanayim, a scrimmage?
For the Christians give them a Christ?
For Italians pizza by the slice?
Thus made a world was new
When man had his first interview
(and all the Gods said, Magnifique
~ Adieu)
Left oblivious an indeterminable number
To eternally prosper or fatally blunder --
When the sun goes down
Everyone become impossible to catch
a girl like you is
More like a bedtime stories
something to Never forgot
Just Remember
Not so long ago
You were dancing with the Italians, now you're
silent as nothing happens.
Wake up to reality
every bones that was
surrounded by death welcome back to life
As Long as the plug comes back we
keep the ancient script.
Remember every legend, dead or alive
was once a forbidden fruit...
More like Vietnam,a living nightmare.
As you wonder who is the shadow ghost,
While everyone walk as if thy are
part of the gang
Claiming to be the ruler
But in reality No such thing
On the judgment state.
Since humans surfaced from the slime,
our art has always turned on time,
on measurement, and not on rhyme –
so Solon says (I’m with him):
the heart of art is rhythm.
You want to waltz? You need three-four.
And verse that’s truly free’s a bore!
The drumkit forms rock music’s core,
and Rhapsody in Blue has
wrought classical anew (jazz).
Our architecture, uninspired,
was looking – feeling – somewhat tired.
Then Frank Lloyd Wright, completely wired,
transformed it, not for profit
– have you seen his soffits?
The painter had become a monkey,
just reproducing portraits (clunky)
and soulless seascapes. Things got funky:
what stirred the stiff Sargasso?
A samba called Picasso!
Those Western movies grew so dull,
the steers were ready for a cull:
Italians dispelled the lull,
while Hollywood said, smugly,
“no-one wants good, bad, ugly!”
So, whether you sculpt or you sing,
you groove to The Beatles or Bing,
you think Nat or Elvis is King,
it don’t mean a thing
if it ain’t got that swing!
(In his opera ‘Nabucco’, Verdi included this song.
The dispossessed Jews represent Verdi’s own
Italians, who were being oppressed by Austria.
It's an anthem for exiles everywhere.)
Go, my thoughts, on golden wings
to where my feet would love to tread,
to where the blackbird of the twilight sings
as day subsides and shadows spread,
to where the gentle murmurings
of languid streams console the dead.
Oh my land, so fair, so lost!
All our troubles come from men.
Can the sunlight crack the frost?
Will I see my home again?
Carry me across the waves
to where my soul will sleep at peace,
to where the ageless architraves
disdain our turbulent caprice:
where none are owners, none are slaves,
and winter yields to summer's lease.
My mother cooked spaghetti
When she made her fish croquettes,
The salmon from a can, a dish
One easily forgets.
Ronzoni was her pasta brand;
The box was blue and bold.
This never varied, even though
Some other brands were sold.
The water boiled inside a pot
And when the time arrived
To drop in the spaghetti,
We were somehow all deprived
Of a meal Italians would condone
Because – you might just laugh –
To make the cooking easier,
She broke the strands in half!
It never felt quite right to me,
Yet when I cook today,
I understand exactly why
She made her dish that way.
You have to force spaghetti down,
Unless your pot is huge,
So breaking it in half is like
A clever subterfuge.
I cook it in the proper way
And haven’t backed down yet,
But I still can’t get my spouse to try
The go-with fish croquette!
Colleen, the fiery red head down the road learned to step dance
She practiced up and down Ireland, then moved to Italy and France.
Hot blooded Italians had never seen a ginger this beautiful and flashy.
The French were unkind; they called Colleen common and trashy.
Colleen moved back to Dublin where her cousins all danced too
Three got jobs on a cruise ship, and invited her to the ocean blue
These four step danced three nights a week, and joined the captain’s table
It was the best time of Colleen’s life, she told her little cousin, Erin Mable.
Botticelli takes a warm bath.
Springtime in arcadia,
The Grace chicks are a threesome.
I tend to ignore the other stuff that's going on.
For triplets
they each have their subtle differences
The girls are demure,
yet they seem to be hoofing a sexy gavotte.
We need a Maypole,
I guess the Italians outnumber the English
in Elysium.
They are as soft as a pillow dream.
I wonder if they ever pillow fight -
a pajamaed affair designed
to arouse Pan and all his
goat faced minions.
It's lambing time
and the ladies
are bouncing merrily.
One day I might take note
of what else is happening
in the painting,
pull it all together
with a few well-chosen observations.
Probably, even then
there will be some odd twigs,
or bendable twists of green
I can't weave together,
no matter how hard I try.
A conversation I had recently with a lady I just met. With Remembrance Day coming up - Lest we Forget….
Over a cup of tea
She told me of her Dad
Who was a Rat of Trobuk
You know he didn’t tell me until I was 14
But he didn’t say much about it
He was only 21
When the War begun
He enlisted with his mates
Because he couldn’t wait
But he didn’t say much about it
There were things he wouldn’t eat
Rabbit and rice uncooked sometimes
There was not much water
Fighting the Germans and Italians in the desert
But he didn’t say much about it
When he came back home
He married my mum his sweetheart
But some nights he couldn’t sleep
Shouting out in nightmares so complete
But he didn’t say much about it.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Pronouncing gives me stress.
With syllables to chance,
could ‘monchielle’ be French?
I feel I can’t advance,
a poilu in a trench.
Pronouncing gives me stress.
Italians insist
words like ‘monchielle’,
devoid of hidden twist,
rhyme with ‘vermicelli’.
Pronouncing gives me stress.
Three syllables, no more?
A word like ‘monchielle’,
by making me keep score,
presents a living hell.
Pronouncing gives me stress.
I openly confess;
though anxious to impress,
I find this verbal chess
affords me no success.
The charming Lady Adler Irene;
Was strangely nowhere to be seen;
As revealed by this clear blanked out scene;
Where those who knew her said she'd been,
Where oft she did appear.
That splendid genius Sherlock Holmes;
For whom no mystery stayed unsolved;
Took up the case within a beat;
As it transpired this curious feat,
Involved his very own sweet dear.
Now Holmes used every trick he knew;
He studied every minute clue;
Searched high and low to no avail;
There simply was no sign or trail,
To indicate what foul did play or who.
But dear Irene had not been taken;
She had in fact just been forsaken;
Her jealous Holmes would have decried;
Her talent, should she ever have tried,
To solve a case or two.
One assumed she changed her name to Ira;
Bought tickets to the Riviera;
With an Italian beau in tow;
To crack the case of how Italians row,
To show her Holmes!
But Irene's path led not to Rome;
Her beauty lost on Sherlock Holmes;
Jamaica had seduced her mind;
She lost herself in Caribbean rhyme,
A rum filled hut now home.
Ze French, they are haughty
Kremlinites, vulgar, crude
Le artiste charcoal sketches
in the unvarnished nude
Brits keep a stiff upper lip
Pointy-shoed Italians think they are hip
Ukrainians fight like the dickens
their stockpiles reduced to slim pickens
Italians make pizza
Scotties bake cake
Russkies drink vodka
Indians bathe in the lake
Swiss craft chocolate
Germans craft beer
Saudis play golf now
Brittney's been Speared
They’re young, they’re beautiful, what’s up!
Cheerleaders make many teenagers dream,
We drink beer, it relaxes us, take time,
It feels good to dream, but not like that.
They’re beautiful; they’re young, what’s up!
They don’t change our worries, our great fears,
We swallow spaghetti like the Italians,
They’re beautiful, but they won’t change love.
They’re beautiful, they’re young, what’s up!
That they dress to please old cats,
Let them dance and smile, great do them,
They will not change the world, nor poetry.
All Russians are named Sasha
Frenchmen like Pierre
Italians go-go for Leonardo
Americans just don't care
You see, here in the US of A
There really is no way ~
Until the middle 20's or so
The wind blows either way
Many people were licking their wounds in force.
Others counting their dead after the World War
Summer Olympics were held in Paris, of course.
Mussolini created Fascism, making Italians sore.
In USSR there was a new economic policy.
Many liked the idea of private enterprise now.
Of course it was touted to be more than it could be.
The limitations put on this made it less than a wow.
Japan was angry with the USA, felt it was not being fair.
Wanted to continue to fight them, put planes in the air.
Christian Nelson put in a patent for Eskimo pie,
Which is still made today. Still sweet with a sigh!
Snowfall caused a Washington theater to collapse, so….
Ninety-eight people died in this Knickerbocker fiasco.
Forty-eight states were in session in the USA.
Wyoming was the last one to join “back in the day”.
It was 1922, and the movies were made in black and white.
The neighbors had different opinions about flappers all right!
Women were smoking cigarettes and being lose back then.
All to the delight of many eager, amorous, fascinated men.
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