Long Italian Poems
Long Italian Poems. Below are the most popular long Italian by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Italian poems by poem length and keyword.
The leaves of autumn blush in crimson hue,
A farewell whispered soft to summer's grace,
As golden light descends to take its place,
And forests don their robes of rusted dew.
The winds of change bring forth a chill anew,
In amber tones the trees their fate embrace,
Each branch prepares to face the winter’s face,
As bare as truth when time has come to view.
But in the silence of the winter’s reign,
The roots hold fast beneath the frozen crust,
For spring will thaw what winter dared restrain.
Though branches sleep, the earth remembers trust,
Awaiting life to course through them again,
And sing once more, as every tree must.
#ItalianSonnet#
The absence of [man's] color will win: white,
black, yellow, or red make no difference
in the life-and-death crush of existence
that rocks and shocks with might but is not right!
Clear and sheer-like, with stealth it comes like night
in strength and power, like a deliverance
about to split apart Intolerance,
the racist's slight, and the mean bigot's bite.
It is right; and has the appearance of
soft, subtle Light that reforms the old view,
and shines a vision of a world suffused with love,
grace, spirit, and clear sight in hearts anew:
our tribes can live in peace and soar above
as One, when our disputes become one hue.
CHRONICLES OF OUR NATIONS SURMOUNTABLE PALAVA
Our currency mirrors my area
and the state of our beloved Nigeria;
Worthless. Hopeless but a resurgent oneness.
The government parastatals are clueless,
But it's still our nation, more or less.
Despite holding so much promises
and natural resources,
our government offices
are managed by corrupt forces
already carrying generational curses.
Currency summation doesn't give grand equation,
rags of time sneers our 'notes into liquidation.
Just as the 100 naira equals 2 gala,
our currency is dwarfed by the dollar,
We don tire fo all the kuru kere & kasala
wey, for this country, don cause plenty wahala.
But here we stand in hope like a faithful lover,
singing the Chronicles of our nation's surmountable palava.
#OnTheSpotPoetry #InspiredByTheImage #HundredNairaEqualsTwoGala #WorthlessNaira
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}.
Copyright© Today, right now, February 22nd, 2021.
I heard the sad song of a lonely dove
My heart grew heavy as she softly cried
Her lover gone no longer by her side
She coos a grieving song for her lost love
With empathy I looked to Him above
To pray a silent prayer toward the skies
Please search the world and use your clouds for eyes
Help find a mate and give fate's hand a shove
Her nest has now become her prison cell
How painful it must be just to return
To think of all those nights together shared
Her friend the wind is all that she can tell
I hope the wind has caught my prayer and churns
And some nice lonely dove will come who cares
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Trees absorb autumn’s color spectrum bright,
paint the leaves with crimson and golden glow.
The gilded leaves leave the brown boughs fallow
of the stripped deciduous trees upright,
dancing to the swan song of winter white.
Decay disguises revival, they know.
Spring returns with spur of resurgent show,
in tawny trees new leaves sprout in delight.
Storm of gloom wrecks my heart, turns it bare tree.
Dismal dusk descends with the sunset sky,
remembers the sun sinks to again rise.
I will wait for my spring to revive me.
From distress dust Phoenix’s rise, I’ll descry
at dawn of renascence with no surprise.
I think of life with an elegant man.
I see a man whose hands are silk to me.
He's stunning in a suit (well-groomed is he).
He loves to read and maybe plays Chopin.
He whisks me off to Paris or Milan.
His dwelling has divans and a nice settee.
We meet the afternoons for chat and tea,
then ride inside a chauffeured black sedan.
Such a man a mystery shall remain.
For me - champagne to my accustomed beer.
I steered toward one whose words and deeds are plain.
He has no care for things that I revere.
For art and culture my man has disdain.
He's strong and bronzed, though, and his heart's sincere.
July 31, 2021
For Chantelle Anne Cooke's Anything You Want - Must Be New Poem Contest
Deciduous 9-9-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deciduous
Artic flares beat upon my dark cocoon
I come in silence to hide from the dark
To bind my wounds with sunlit afternoons
Wrapping my pain with loneliness, so stark,
In isolation like a sinful moon
Spinning silken petals, a newborn ark
Whiplashed by regret’s compulsive rune
And bear the weight of fear - forever marked.
From a single thread my world hangs upside down,
A maze of anguish, labyrinth of tears,
Fluttering in restless desolation,
When a song of grace like softest eiderdown
Peels away each petal from nascent spheres
To fall away from a new creation.
Observe the modern generations walk
on by; they suckle from the plastic teat
of coffee cups, and stumped by stamping feet
they shamble unaware from flock to flock.—
infant adults—if earnest I may speak;
Look there: one loops in circles (a grand feat!)
and, as if an ornithological suite,
the gaggle shuffles behind,—“squawk squawk squawk!”
Yikes… I suppose that if I ran at ‘em
they’d scatter faster than frightened pigeons.—
Wouldn’t even need to make the barest noise,
merely the sight of a threatening poise
is enough to disperse their religions
(yes—religions—phony, false—“fun”:—numb!).
how long and sourly sobs the lonely heart
depends on how grave the weight which grieves the tears
pouring from the despondent spirit’s pores.—
a witness, too, will know the surly sort
of rain that beats down harshly on the court
called Sorrow Drive.—sure seems like nothing cheers
up the—nor nothing soothes the—nasty fears
nesting in somber nooks.—no, only art
comes close to curing spiritual sores.—
but even it leaves quite untouched the cause.—
able only to act as numbing gauze,
art is the first of many guarded doors,—
engraved on its threshold,—and colorfast—:
“seek you now to enter your wounded past?”
There was a fiddler. How he loved to play!
He had two sons. In wooden shoes they’d clog
while he would fiddle, and his little dog
would prance with them! They didn’t always stay
inside their little shack, for sometimes they
would go out to the porch. There was a frog
who’d come to visit them and all agog,
that frog would watch the merry group all day.
The frog was fond of music, so he’d croak
the fiddler’s tune in singing froggy style.
The fiddler and his sons would laugh and joke
to hear the frog sing for them all the while.
The hopping frog danced with the dog and folk.
“By gosh,” they said, “that frog’s sure versatile!”
Jan. 23, 2023
for The Fiddler And The Frog Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
For Brian Strand's Contest begun Feb. 12,2023