I adore my beautiful Nona giving birth to my father September 14th 1942 this woman from Mason Italy daughter of Masonery family from Rome culture heritage in one woman's journey to America ancestors from Ellis Island I won't mention my grandfather a complete womanizer my Nona family helped my pop while serving in WWII Somewhere in Italy my Nona's family bringing breadbto the troops in my pops platoon the many pioneer women raising a family from Rome mi Nonna Irish Italian blessing Mason Keaton what a wonderful blessing baptising me from God Nona Mason Italy Ciao Bella
In Rome do not do as the Romans do.
For you'll lose out in many ways.
The pizza you loved at home
will an alien be,
a fake, a fraud,
with no authentic
flavor and razzmatazz.
For such compliance,
expected in advance on holidays
begs a baseless bewilderment,
topped off with a lasting
legacy of disappointment,
when your holiday is over.
For ignorance, indeed, is bliss!
They called me a coward, said my words would hide,
Too scared to face the storm, I’d run and confide.
My thoughts were shadows, secrets locked tight,
In silence, I fought my own ing fight.
They wanted thunder, loud as hell,
To shout like lightning, break the spell.
But my voice shook, a flickering flame,
Afraid the truth would tarnish my name.
They spread their bull, twisted my life,
Throwing stones, cutting like a knife.
I carried my truths in whispers, not screams,
Afraid to face the pain, caught in my dreams.
So call me dramatic, call me what you will,
These scars are mine, but I’m standing still.
I’ll find my voice when the time’s right,
And when I speak, I’ll be ready for the fight.
A Poet's heartfelt ode to Italy
is the murmur of the calmest sea
heard at the close of a long day;
anchored boats in the bay of Amalfi
await sunset and nobody has a plea
to escape danger, so nostalgic is Gigi!
Samuel Rogers 'ITALY'
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I was thrilled to what the handsome gondolier wore
black and white striped shirt, straw hat,
red bow dripping off back of hat….
like Sophia Loren films from the sixties
Golden plush juicy olives filled with colors sea bright
from the southern border tall beautiful daisies
that remind me of my mother's floral dress of paisleys
Alpine mountains that echo my father's youthful sight
and an ocean so blue it takes my breath away,
we were married in a little church not far away
then together we sailed across the sea
Oh Beautiful Italy,
remember us, remember me.
January 5 2023
A port in Italy
Livorno was a dark town with sparse light that appeared Russian
at an open place with many trucks and many women milling about
I paid one she bent over the bonnet of a car
did this to relieve the boredom and the onset of depression.
When the deed was done, I walked to a restaurant and bought
a bottle of wine, it was surprisingly good, probably Russian
I do not care for Italian wine.
The woman followed me, wanted wine also, said I was gentle.
After two bottles, she said she loved me.
When she went into the loo. I jumped into a taxi and drove
back to the ship feeling annoyed.
What has love got to do with this?
I never associated weather-faced seventy-year-old Florence with Italy until today, sixty years later.
Florence’s hands moved as fast as she talked. She was usually accompanied by her favorite goat,
Gladys, who knew when to bleat and when to keep still. Florence’s mouth was always going;
she had a reputation she had to maintain. We neighbor kids either loved or hated her;
there was no in between. She looked like a wizened witch, wearing men’s overalls,
grimy shirts, and that silly hat with the goat bite out of the brim.
My sister was terrified of her at first, but I despised her until I was forced to know her
by my insistent mother. My initial aversion revised itself
into an eerie fascination which eventually bordered on Florence love.
She told the most entertaining gruesome macabre stories imaginable.
At ten, I remember hanging onto every word about three men who were hanged,
a twelve foot garden snake, and other deplorable things I was not allowed to hear
anywhere else. This was the sixties, when TV was tame, all cowboys and Indians.
So I was grateful to have Florence. Here she is now, walking Gladys. Have to go.
More later.
A silken drop nectar refined,
Delicious, smooth, it’s taste sublime,
Worshipped and revered in times of old,
Bacchus it’s God, his hand-maidens bold.
The Romans swilled, the Greeks imbibed,
The British drank, the French prescribed.
The Church just called it Christ’s own blood,
Believers flowed as if by flood.
This luscious liquid as fine as honey,
The fountain not of youth but merely money,
Small price to pay for so much fun,
When it can turn a dowdy day to sun.
Clinking glasses moments shared,
The more imbibed the more is bared,
Food important or so they claim,
When as a smokescreen its main aim.
All that said let me be clear
There’s a reason we choose wine not beer,
Wine is healthy, helps the heart,
Beer is fattening and so tart.
All over Italy north and south
Cows and goats and their cheeses
Corn polenta, mid-land pastas
There white and red wine always pleases
Beans and cabbages poor man’s wishes
Folded with tomatoes and onions
Add broth, and eatable Allium that helps the best dishes
That strong flavored bulb even illnesses eases
Ah Italy the chefs and mothers have such genius
The country endowed with uncommon vigor of mind
There you will find versions of dishes of every kind
And though the Nazis were there people still dined
Many sent their meats and cheeses to barns and homes
Where people would run and hide leaving the worse behind
Reminding us Bologna gave us sauce, pasta and pears
In remembrance still everyone gathers and shares
Ah Italy how I wish I could again be there
But tonight in Santa Cruz there will be —
Still be tomatoes, cheeses, pasta and pears
If you want to think literally,
Then please take me to Italy.
Hello my name is Pizza
It's me you wants tuh eatsa
You want with lotsa meatsa?
The fave of the Tsaritza!
There are places and events
that are unerasable from memory,
such are the indelible memories of Italy;
no other country was given more
beauty than my Motherland
created by God's artistic hand:
the majestic snow-capped Alps,
the pristine shore washed by rolling waves...
these all tune into Nature's song of harmony
which praises her forevermore!
This wonderful land was chosen for her fertility,
huge fields of golden, waving wheat
that I ran through with incredible joy,
enormous meadows of pretty daisies
either white, pink, red, blue and yellow
protected by mountains echoing with the sheep's bleat;
were they frightened by the wolf's bellow?
All of the panoramic views that the Motherland
offered were so delightful to admire:
seas reflecting serene, cerulean skies,
pristine beaches with crystalline sand,
hills lulled by gentle breezes, valleys shaded by lofty pines
and under them, I pensively sat to contemplate and smile!
Sicilia, a beautiful island
With a very bloody plan
A few families at war
Murder, corruption and more
Vincento was a street soldier
Marie was a hitmans daughter
With their hearts full of lust
A secret romance is a must
As they belong to warring families
With no trust and rivalries
They couldn't keep their love apart
As they tried so very hard
Marie always in Vincento's arms
Defenceless to his charms
The families learned of the romance
Threatening murder at first glance
So Vincento and Marie ran away
Boarding a ship, destination USA
they wed in secret under different names
Vincento and Marie James,
After the towns priest
Who fought for Sicilian peace
Settled down to start a new family
Travelling in shadows constantly
Just waiting for the time they're caught red faced
In mafia wars love has no place
Always looking over their shoulder
But love strengthens as they get older
Hiding in a town that no Sicilian goes
Will they live forever? No one knows
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