Long Florence Poems
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Cigarette smoke and cheap perfume
linger in a dance of remembrance
An unmarried aunt who clerked in a store
her rummage sale pearls yellow with age
wrapped around my memories and my fascinations
I was eleven years old when she died
and I heard my parents say: “Floss was never really happy”
But to me, she always smiled and took a
nickel from her shiny black plastic purse when it
was time for us to leave…
putting the coin in my hand and a big red lipstick
kiss on my cheek
Looking back, I think it was my parents who were
unhappy with who she was
There were whispers of past husbands and
maybe a child—but no one ever talked about it out loud
In a black and white 1950’s world Aunt Florence
was bigger than their disappointments
Living in the shadows of the post war mid-century
a ‘loser’ could slip into one and hang on
She has outlived almost everything
I was encouraged to forget
and her life has become rich in my memory
—growing richer with time
(Lansdowne Pennsylvania: 1959)
Sonia Esmee Florence Butt ( work in progress )
The year 2014 comes to a close
Another unsung hero passed on, from a time long ago
Poets free to express our thoughts
Due to the bravery of Sonia D'Artrois
The day was may 28, 1944
A parachute and Sonia fell from the sky
Cropte, France, behind enemy lines
Her code name Madeleine, terrifying times
Explosives, and weapons, she understood
Training the Maquis to fight, in Charnie the forest hood
A woman who earned the respect of all around
For she was the leader of the underground
Great distances on Bicycle she would ride
Courier and messenger delivering supplies
Right in front of the Nazi eye
They never discovered this lady, Blanche the spy!
D'artois she met in the war in France
Explosions of love, this great romance
After D-Day, more explosions too
Many a Nazi was felled in his shoes
This British heroine when victory was assured
Across the sea to Canada she went
Married her lover
Met in danger, in the resistance of France
Notes Sonia d'Artois passed away on Dec 21, 2014 at the age of 90, a British woman who at a very young age joined the SOE ( Special Operations Executive ) She was parachuted behind enemy lines in France nine days before D-Day to lead a group in the french resistance (The Maquis) There she met a Canadian an officer in the Canadian army Guy d'Artois. They fell in love and later settled back in Montreal Canada.
I thought it was oh so nice that Lady Florence Artifice lived in her house with goats.
She dressed in overalls of a man, with layers of bibbed overalls, dresses and coats
There was no other livestock in our neighborhood, but I thought inside was really good.
She was an oddity to others in town, but my twin and I loved it when she was around.
Her stories were terrifyingly thrilling, about hangings and people who tarred others.
We kids kept these tales to ourselves, not wanting to be censored by our mothers.
We followed her and Kneely, her head goat, up and down the block when she came by.
She would not talk to the grownups; they had no time for her; I always wondered why.
Strange, odd, weird, I heard them whisper sometimes about Lady Florence Artifice.
These small town Iowa women on my block were cliquish and clannish, and not very nice.
My mother thought it was hilarious that the kids loved this old crazy woman so much.
She allowed us leeway to run up to her garden and help her clean her rabbit hutch.
Florence knew the name of every flower, bush, vine, plant, mushroom, seed and tree.
She kept up a constant chatter that always amazed and delighted nine-year-old me.
She told us about killing cobras, rattlesnakes, lions, tigers, and one time a grizzly bear.
It was a sad day in the lives of us children when Lady Florence and Kneely were no longer there.
I could not get much dirtier
I stare at my hands and laugh
not realizing until now how much
I resemble Florence
The old lady we made fun of when we were kids
because she was always filthy; especially her hands.
My hands have paint all over them – and I did not notice
before changing my clothes and coming into this store
I have neon paint in green, blue, and orange on them
There is a splash of gold paint on my bare knee
and a dollop of red paint on my big toe
I laugh at myself
When I was a child I did not realize
this is how little you will care
when you reach your sixties
Florence makes sense now
All the noisy critters, warblers and the morning, young horse rider
have taken with them spring's harmony;
no longer can galloping beats and songbirds make this black, forest
echo with their delightful sounds of felicity;
winter has indeed stripped it of every beam of light and lovely flower.
That handsome troubadour who came from France was happy,
too anxious to get to Florence and live in courts of prosperity
and galloping on the unpaved roads below the majestic Alps
never thought of his mademoiselle who was also dreaming,
drifting to places where true romance lived in sincere hearts,
but sadly this was done on wishful thinking
from a rose-bloomed balcony as Juliet did...
without the intention of ever being wed;
hear her loud cry, " Troubadours don't remain faithful
for long...their desire for adventure makes all null! "
From that castle where noisy ravens gathered,
and shrilled, Marie with tearful eyes looked
over the enchanting black forest dullest than a grey, swelling cloud
which blocked the sunlight from entering her cold window
not frequented by a thrush that stayed behind
for unknown reasons and took shelter in the tower below;
" Poison is a sweet drink and when one is denied love! " she declared.
Copyright ( c ) 20015 by Andrew Crisci
I feel like writing - the feeling is itch-like.
Perhaps something aesthetically unconvincing
to feed the algorithm or better yet, something
carefully designed to invoke irate criticism.
“You aren’t the boss of me!" I’ll be thinking.
It’s my understanding (ok, a 15 year old told me)
that younger GenZs go to dances and just stand around
because GOD FORBID someone takes a pic
of them looking stupid while dancing.
I’m genZ but I want to shake myself apart on the dance floor.
I don’t stand looks - I switch it up with..
“If you think I look stupid
- I don’t look stupid -
your FACE looks stupid. (I sneer)
I can stop dancing any time
but you’re stuck with that face.”
Of course, that's an old insult - as old as teens themselves
but sometimes you have to go with the classics.
.
.
A song for this:
Get Him Back by Fiona Apple
Cassandra by Florence + the Machine
Quote:"True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories."--
Florence King
In the quiet folds of memory's embrace,
Where whispers of the past find their place,
There lies a fragment, ephemeral, yet profound,
A cherished relic in life's intricate mound.
Old aerogrammes, yellowed with age's flight,
Postage stamps, memories in paper light.
In their fleeting touch, a nostalgic sight,
Ephemeral relics, lost in time's might.
Or perhaps it's a ticket stub, worn and frayed,
From a concert where melodies forever played.
In the echo of music, I find solace sweet,
As notes of joy and sorrow gracefully meet.
There's a photograph, yellowed with age,
Capturing a moment, frozen on life's stage.
Smiles preserved in sepia, a snapshot in time,
A treasure trove of emotions, bittersweet and sublime.
These ephemeral fragments, fleeting and frail,
Are threads in the tapestry of life's tale.
Though transient they seem, they hold memories dear,
Anchoring us to moments, both far and near.
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
The sacred lily of antiquity;
vital, that centuries have not defied.
Treasures, luminaries of Italy;
a preserved cultured city, dignified.
Basilica on the mount arises;
"The Gate of Heaven" takes my breath away.
The dome cap nestles above the city;
A vista opens to new horizons,
Cathedral bells ring, calling me to pray;
outside, minstrels in song, bold and witty.
On the old bridge, wares for sale are displayed.
A passage, above the River Arno;
self- portraits, don the walls; masters portrayed.
Bronzed doors, a journey to The Inferno;
afficionados of art come to praise.
Sculptures come alive in the public square;
Uffizi's galleries, patrons are drawn
to the genius of masters, are amazed.
The passion of "bel canto" fills the air;
night falls, your cobbled streets, dim, until dawn.
In marbled tombs lay national heroes;
maestros who impart the gifts of sages.
The Sacred Crucifix hangs in sorrow,
over consecrated ground, it graces.
A tapestry of life's virtues you share.
To the titans of art, we owe a debt.
Saints and prophets, their relics you enshrine;
devoted in faith we kneel in prayer.
David's majestic strength, Goliath met.
Florence's gifts, a legacy, divine!
May 4, 2022
For: Form O-Ode-New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes verified on Rhymezone.com
Syllables verified on Howmanysyllables.com
Theme: Place
Placed 3rd in contest
Compassion’s heart, mercy’s gentle touch
angel’s wings speed to scenes
of blood, guts and gore
Where, O where has the god of history seen this before …
From the narrow passage at Thermopylae
to the other side of the Rubicon
From the bloody invasion of Jerusalem
to the feats of Genghis Kahn
From the legends of Clara Barton
and Florence Nightingale
to the haunting sirens of Red Cross Trucks
traversing World War One and Two's living hells
When will mankind follow the path of those who treasure life
lay down their arms ~ end war’s woe and strife