I am weary of conflict,
arguments battling across
bloodied ground.
The dead
always come back
as ghosts to haunt
the dark arena of sleep.
Life has become defined
by armaments.
I shall find a place
in the lull of an evening
where the wind quietens
into prayers whispered
along leafy avenues
and storms no longer claw
at the stone walls and pillars
of the temple
but become gentle rain
soothing the City
with its long fingers.
There, on the steps,
I shall leave a fragile
offering for you.
If you come, come quickly
for the sky carries
a reddening glow
and the hearts
of many are beginning
to darken with despair.
Chaos is about to enter
the gates of the City.
Meanwhile the mad Emperor
admires his manhood
reflected in a golden urinal.
Note.
Rewrite of previous poem.
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
Once was a time when every hill he held,
When temples there proclaimed his rule divine;
Once was a time when every foe he felled,
When Jove's bright standard led the Roman line.
By thunderbolts his anger seen,
Backed by might and vision keen.
Well known that king of gods was worst of men,
For gods as men from strength do oft grow base;
Left lofty thought, to beast converted when
Pulled down by flesh, his virtue left no trace.
So thus the mortal mixed with god,
Good with evil, fair with odd.
Rome on fair Tiber’s banks was built on law,
For of stern reason were laid down its ways;
Of order, more than sword, arose its awe:
This is the bloom of bright Jupiter’s rays.
The thoughts divine, the troubled heart,
Forged from beast was reason’s start.
Long since to dust and tours gone temple sites,
These things of stone that fell to bitter time;
But yet his guiding hand our pathway lights:
Therein a legacy endures past crime.
He taught so much, when ruled the sky;
Final lesson, how to die.
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.
Vanished in death’s flames with Mani’s scriptures of life
Banished to mine for grey-white marble to fulfil Rome’s plan
Punished to mine in Phaeno, or die by Rome’s knife
Unvanquished through the endurance of the First Man
Valiantly working in marble mines, they now rest on diamond roads of light
Patently, those burned souls became our sweet remembrance and frankincense
Rampantly, inflamed Diocletian tried and failed to steal their pearls of pure white
Brilliantly, Mani’s burned medicine became our sweet myrrh incense
Poem about the Roman Emperor Diocletian's (284–305 AD) persecution of Manichaeans, which later extended to Christians. This is in honour of those persecuted.
As all roads lead to Rome
(if not home)
and when there
I do as the Romans do
and pasta alla carbonara
is my favourite meal
not scallopini veal
could not have too much
pork on my fork
and as a kid for the nonce
received the nickname
'Bacon Bonce'
but when in Spain
my brain remains
mainly on a higher plane
(the mountain)
where I enjoy Jamón Serrano
(como el paisano)
produced with a quality guarantee
under the strict control
of and labeled
Consorcio del Jamón Serrano Español
The Tower was engineered
by Monsieur Eiffel in Paris
the Wheel was favoured
by Mr. Ferris
Michelangelo in Rome
contributed St. Peter's Basilica dome
Eddystone Lighthouse the first
was constructed by Winstanley and
in St. Paul's Cathedral
Sir Christopher Wren had a hand
the seated Thinker
was carved out by Auguste Rodin
the Taj Mahal (Mumtaz') tomb
commissioned by Shah Jahan
all roads lead to the Colosseum
started by Emperor Vespasian
Borglum executed Mount Rushmore
while Hadrian gave us the Wall
and Ferdinand de Lesseps
secured the Suez Canal
in Byzantine Constantinople
Justinian I built the Hagia Sophia
in Italy Bonanno Pisano began
the (later leaning) Tower of Pisa
the Egyptian Pharaoh Khafre
inspired the Sphinx
but in Scotland who designed
the Musselburgh (golf) Links
Today, we're watching America fall, just as Rome fell.
Democrats and Republicans have marched us straight into hell.
And just as Jesus, in predicting the End Times, did say ~
this will all happen before the current generation passes away.
As nations rise against nations, and America squanders its laurel wreath,
there will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Walking to Rome
On my way to Rome, I walked with a group
of Jews who had left Israel because it had
become a racist state
The Jews were a group of young men and
women on their way to Rome to seek an
audience with the Papa to ask him to take
a stance against the orgy of brutality
against the Palestinians
Their goal was the creation of a Palestine
They, as Jews, could be a part of a new future
I listened to their ideology, and they were
Young enough believed in the shared dream
I knew that, should they see the P, he would
be nice to them and speak in a measured
voice, because the Papacy was a political
too, and nothing must upset the balance
I don't know if they got an audience with the pope
But I learned something vital, I had tended
to speak about the Jews in a negative form
and didn't see the difference between Zionism and Jews
As for me, I met a wonderful woman at Travessa
de Santa Maria and had a splendid time
No pease porridge for me if you please
neither hot nor cold
especially not if what's in the pot
is nine days old
for when in Parma Palermo or Pisa
(no pottage slop)
I'm predisposed and have the propensity
to pour a potent potable
(pink plonk)
and prefer to partake of a piece of pepperoni pizza
with pancetta pomodoro peperoncini
porcini plus a peck of pecorino on the top
even the penchant for a piccante prosciutto panini
or pass me a plate of penne puttanesca
with the proclivity for a platter of pinoli pesto
possibly pasta with parmesan
and I'm pleased to wine and dine al fresco
There once was an old Pope from Rome
who had the Good Book a huge tome
an altar ego and mass appeal
so he made the Vatican home
2015 he addressed the environment
on climate change caused by man
and issued a Catholic Church encyclical
the first-ever since Popes began
let's trust instructing his cardinals
to avoid any more scandals
when pontificating and preaching to the choir
to burn less incense and light fewer candles
altho' it's a slippery slope here's the dope
and no I won't soft-soap
there's not much hope of Pope on a rope
but I can cope so I won't mope
now hear my voice as it's a choice
if I may be quite so bold
religion is discretionary not hereditary
and the herd of sheep in the fold should be told
Practicing hard at his yoga,
Cato convolved with his toga.
The news he was caught
In this Gordian Knot
Spread to the land of Busoga.
Atop a bed of plastic
In a house made of bone
I am helpless to feel Rome’s revival
Men become sheep and wolves
Crusaders line up for war
Careless toward their fellow heretic
Houses burn
Stone pillars rise from foundations
All as the sands of time bury the path forward
Yet even as they do, water still runs in the bath house
"And you, Brutus?" And then was Caesar dead.
A moment's act and history's chapter done;
A moment's thrust and Caesar's life was bled,
And you the one that Caesar thought his son.
But were you son of Rome, and that came first?
Did Caesar die a hero, or a knave?
Can justice spring from such a violent burst?
Can sudden murder be an act that's brave?
I cannot judge, I was not there that day,
Nor felt the thought and passions of the street;
I cannot judge, let those who can then say
What fate a newborn tyrant stands to meet.
I cannot judge, and therefore close the door:
But lasting good came not from that day's horror.
Well, Brutus was that sort of chap
As whacked his old man in the Cap.
The senators there,
They’d stab or they’d stare,
With all other business a wrap.
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