but while walking through
the botanical gardens in Florence
it was all my husband
could focus on
He told me as we huffed it up the hill
that they built a cemetery on top
for morons like us
Neither of us looked up
at the symmetry of trees
or the truest blue
of the Mediterranean
that winked at us
in clean clarity below
Ten years of marriage
equates to hiking up a hill in July
and sweating in the hope
of something special ahead
“Keep walking, less talking”
I told him
Every turn brought another hill
Even the air was tired of constant providing
We didn’t find squirrels
but there were plastic chairs
next to the cemetery
Braise
Mysterious loses
Pleasing, tempting, teasing
Planting, affluents blue gold
Treasure
PM MELONI
TRUMP A PHONEY BALONEY
HE LIED ABOUT ME
Watched our city burn to ashes
They crumbled at your feet
Wait until some time passes
Let’s see the fate you’ll meet
My sword pressed to your neck
We can no longer pretend
That your acts don’t affect
People with hearts to mend
Nero, Nero, what do you say?
It’s time to take a bitter pill
You can’t have Rome your way
If you’re a slave to the hills
You rule like a filthy king
Blood coating your robes
As the fire burns, you sing
Jewels hang from your wife’s lobes
Now, you’ve got a throne to keep
But where is your list of morals?
And into your palace we’ll leap
And steal your gorgeous florals
So, Nero, listen to your people
Be careful who you keep close
Because the moment the leaves fall
Your life will hit an all-time low
My wish would be to visit Italy,
where my grandparents were with family.
One came from Florence, one from Sicily,
before my Mom and I were born to be.
I'd love to find out how their lives began-
those years in Italy before their plan
to board the ship- a woman and a man-
embrace the USA, their future span.
From tales they told me, Italy was home
to lovely gardens, winding hills to roam,
and special wonders, such as that in Rome,
with the Basilica's expansive dome.
To feel the rhythm of the countryside
and taste delicious entrees, well supplied;
confirm the recipes I've used stateside-
and the traditions learned and passed with pride.
I have these visions that live in my mind.
Someday, I hope, the real scenes to find.
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!
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'
___ ___
| | | |
| | | | piacevole
| | | |
---
====((==---
))---
((
))
((
))
(_PASTA_)
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
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.