Long Valle Poems
Long Valle Poems. Below are the most popular long Valle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Valle poems by poem length and keyword.
We’re dancing with the blues, a twilight silent musical,
But it’s a fine soiree; a low rent way to have it all.
We’ll close our eyes and hum a tune, it’s one we’ll just make up,
And dub step till that stingy moon drops something in our cup.
We’re dancing with the blues. My baby brings her muse along.
I take my cue from her and get my Arthur Murray on.
My eyes adore her working poor while Frankie Valle sings.
If bourgeois life is for the birds, we’d better grow some wings.
We’re dancing with the blues and we re-use our coffee grounds.
We’re down to seeds and stems. Our stomachs make those empty sounds.
So jitterbugging on the lawn appeases our despair.
We’re going, going, almost gone, not getting anywhere.
We’re dancing with the blues. You know it’s not unusual
To leave some bills unpaid. In fact, I’d say it’s typical.
We’ll rumba into bankruptcy and join the welfare line,
Then do the hokey pokey as if everything were fine.
We’re dancing with the blues on wooden legs in shoes of stone.
My darlin’ don’t complain; the only loyal dame I’ve known.
She swings low Ginger Rogers style and smiles like Bettie Page.
We’re waltzing down the Walmart aisle without a living wage.
We’re dancing with the blues.
If you've ever seen Ca' Rezzonico
seeming quite to float
upon the Grand Canal
as you bob in a boat,
or if you've ever eavesdropped
in some Trastevere alley
some golden afternoon
on some tenor's voice a-sobbing
beneath an early moon,
or in Andrea della Valle
breathed in Puccini's subtle chords,
you'll know that life affords
no more sacred boon.
Recondita armonia, literally.
If you've taken in
Albinoni's Adaggio
or gnocchi con formaggio
in a loggia on the Arno
or the slopes of Montepulciano,
or walked in misty thunder
the olive groves of Cennina,
or sat in wordless wonder
in the theater of Taormina,
or witnessed Piero's frescoes
in San Francesco of Arezzo,
or breathed the morning sunlight
or Mascagni's Intermezzo,
seen summer rain in torrents
come laughing down the street,
then you'll know why
or looked down upon fair Florence
like a carpet at your feet,
Italians set at variance
themselves and us,
and call us The Barbarians.