Long Adriatic Poems
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I've wandered many islands,
Seen countless shades of blue.
But none compare, my friends, to where
The glass and lace ring true.
Let me paint you a picture,
Of Murano's fiery art,
And Burano's rainbow houses,
That set these isles apart.
Murano's furnaces blazing,
Glass maestros at their craft.
Molten sand transformed into beauty,
With every skilful draft.
The clink of cooling crystals,
A melody so clear.
Chandeliers and figurines,
Fragile art appears.
In Burano, colours dancing,
On every house and street.
A painter's palette comes to life,
Where sky and water meet.
Lacemakers' fingers flying,
Creating intricate dreams.
Their needles flash like lightning,
Stitching stories at the seams.
The canals reflect the hues,
Of houses standing tall.
A kaleidoscope of wonder,
Enchanting one and all.
Fishermen's boats bob gently,
In waters calm and still.
Their nets full of the day's catch,
The air with salt air fills.
The church tower leans so slightly,
A guardian of time.
Watching over coloured houses,
In this land so sublime.
Tourists wander, cameras clicking,
To capture every sight.
In this magical lagoon world,
Bathed in Venetian light.
As day fades into twilight,
The islands slowly sleep.
But their beauty keeps on glowing,
A memory to keep.
So when you're seeking wonder,
And your heart yearns to roam,
Remember Murano and Burano,
Where art and colour call home.
In glass and lace and painted walls,
These isles have cast their spell.
A testament to human craft,
And nature's beauty as well.
So let the world keep turning,
But pause here for a while,
Where Murano's glass keeps burning,
And Burano's colours smile.
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.
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!
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!!!!
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 "
Chinrest in place I begin to play my violin and the whole world
disappears....
an appassionato moment of pure delight, among the chaos of
a swallowing ocean !
Dreams I never dared dream pour out like blood, at the cusp of
a massive drowning;
Titanic of 1912, a collision of magnitude proportion between
ice and steel,
the thrum of dying bodies pummeling down into the sea.
She was beautiful, a broken fire in the middle of the
Adriatic Sea...
He a Jack of the arts a poor man with a lucky card
then there was J Bruce Ismay, a coward
with a license to preach, a self appointed God,
who placed greed in front of life and progress...
I play on, " Nearer, My God, to Thee"
my music becomes my last will and testament,
as my feet sink and my soul leaves my body
I play for the God who saves,
I play for the drowning victims,
and I play for the sea, that taketh me
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
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
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
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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