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Sestina
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Sitting under a tree, old and grey
No flowers to bloom, leaves falling down
Birds desert the nests, no one to play around
The clouds are around, they hold no charm
Gave shade to many, no one to shade us
Waiting to fall one day, are we made for each other?
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Sestina
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A shade of Turquoise,
Vibrant and lengthy,
Smooth like blueberries,
Thick like quilt,
Wrapped in ribbon,
Neatly and tight.
Eyes like pandas,
Big and bold,
Lashes like spiders,
Most are new,
Some are old,
Like my big red luscious lips (or so I am told).
My big frame and stature,
Is not a match for you,
My retro fashion sense,
Vintage like me,
I'm happy with just flowers,
Gerberas red, pink, yellow and green.
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Sestina
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LOVE LESSON
I give my lesson for their son.
Room plain, cracked, greyed -
Rubbed away - curtains frayed.
Good furnishing - none,
Except the big photo
Of two lovers long ago.
They have lost their charm.
She, dumpy and plainer,
Holding his old arm.
He, greying, opens doors for her.
She leans on his strong lift
And walks in to see the gift -
Flowers - rose and carnation -
A birthday surprise celebration.
“Please stay and share !”
No - this is a private affaire,
In a room near-finished
But with love furnished.
She gave me my lesson.
She’d achieved my ambition.
I, to rich curtains returning,
And no husband to miss me.
Waiting with engine running,
My shiny car outside is empty.
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Sestina
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Around the base of the tree the banks of bluebells flower
Tall and straight but weak of stem, beautifying the forest
Cultivated by nature, leaves for compost, untouched by hand
The flowers are admired by all, gathered by children’s hand
To crush out the perfume from within the flower
Pressed into a book a reminder of the fairy tale forest
Forever in your memory the waving ocean of blue forest
A canvas brought to life by James D Preston hand*
Though missing the perfume of this beautiful small blue flower
Flowers of the Forest natures canvas in your Hand
* http://duffieldartgallery.co.uk/gallery/home/james-preston/?oo=41627715
a link to the painting.
17/02/2013
Form Tritinia
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Sestina
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Amidst the woods and fields so green,
Nature's beauty can be seen.
From the chirping birds in the trees,
To the buzzing bees and gentle breeze.
The flowers bloom in rainbow hues,
And the leaves rustle with morning dews.
The sun shines bright and warms the land,
While the moon and stars glow on command.
The rivers flow with gentle grace,
And the oceans roar with a fierce embrace.
Mountains tower high in the sky,
And valleys dip low, where rivers run by.
Wildlife roams free in the land,
With beauty and grace at their command.
Deer that dart, and rabbits that hop,
And majestic eagles that soar and stop.
Nature's cycles, a wondrous sight,
From dawn's first light to the end of night.
From birth and growth, to age and decay,
It's a magnificent display day by day.
So let us cherish nature's gifts,
And protect it from harm and rifts.
For it is a treasure to behold,
A legacy worth preserving for all to behold.
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Sestina
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In my vegetable garden,
birds are watching me, pick
green beans to eat.
A lone robin, scrounges for seeds, from sun flowers.
An old, twisted oak tree,
filters the sunlight.
The cool, filtered light,
is just right, for my garden.
Beneath that oak tree,
are ripe tomato’s I need to pick,
for my supper. Mr. Robin flits upwards to a sun flower.
He’s found his seeds and eats.
His fill, he’ll eat
and rest in the moon’s light.
Ms. Deer gnaws only, flowers,
as I leave the garden.
No doubt, if I hadn’t picked
My vegetables, already he’d be devouring them, beneath that shady tree.
I chased her to a distant tree;
tossed her an apple to eat.
She’ll be back to take her pick
More, I know, by the evening moon’s light.
She’ll return to devour my garden;
and will also, eat the flowers.
I plant bulbs and flowers,
away from my garden and the tree;
hoping Ms. Deer, will avoid, my garden;
preferring to go and eat,
by the evening moon’s light;
while I sit with my guitar and pick.
Tomorrow, if they’re not eaten,
I’ll go out and pick,
a nice bouquet of table flowers,
in morning sun’s, bright light.
As it filters though the trees,
that grow beside my garden.
When evening comes, my guitar I’ll pick, in the waning moon’s dim light.
Ms. Deer, her fill, of flowers, will eat.
Oak tree beds down, for the night, beside the garden.
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Sestina
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In my vegetable garden,
birds are watching me, pick
green beans to eat.
A lone robin, scrounges for seeds, from sun flowers.
An old, twisted oak tree,
filters the sunlight.
The cool, filtered light,
is just right, for my garden.
Beneath that oak tree,
are ripe tomato’s I need to pick,
for my supper. Mr. Robin flits upwards to a sun flower.
He’s found his seeds and eats.
His fill, he’ll eat
and rest in the moon’s light.
Ms. Deer gnaws only, flowers,
as I leave the garden.
No doubt, if I hadn’t picked
My vegetables, already; he’d be devouring them, beneath that shady tree.
I chased her to a distant tree;
tossed her an apple to eat.
She’ll be back to take her pick
More, I know, by the evening moon’s light.
She’ll return to devour my garden;
and will also, eat the flowers.
I plant bulbs and flowers,
away from my garden and the tree;
hoping Ms. Deer, will avoid, my garden;
preferring to go and eat,
by the evening moon’s light;
while I sit with my guitar and pick.
Tomorrow, if they’re not eaten,
I’ll go out and pick,
a nice bouquet of table flowers,
in morning sun’s, bright light.
As it filters though the trees,
that grow beside my garden.
When evening comes, my guitar, I’ll pick, in the waning moon’s dim light.
Ms. Deer, her fill, of flowers, will eat.
Oak tree beds down, for the night, beside the garden.
Entered: Knight Writer's Club Grand Opening - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tyshawn Knight
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Sestina
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All the strawberry's and moss rose's bushes
are slowing budding along the dusty bridle paths,
and as the husky New York cowboys pull down their hats,
they don't seem to excite their trotting horses;
and I am slower than they are...dragging my aching feet
to barren fields, where yesterday's lovers loved to dream!
And as the dormant forest awaits spring,
below the rain-soaked hill, some trees dingle from it's corroded cliffs
that are thickly covered with maroon leaves;
but the innocuous squirrels, unaware, scare away the wandering robin
that is too lonely and looks for sign of existence,
and my observation is a note worthy one by the rhythm of his wings!
My memorable childhood was spent observing the diverse seasons,
and the spectacular colors that bewildered me...enhancing their significance,
and whoever saw that child with a rosy face and short, curly hair:
must have thought to have seen a cherub with the softest wings,
who never tired of discovering new flowers and trees;
jotting down every detail in his handy notebook, to create words with flair!
Rest under the pale sky, tired man and write your drama;
your strength has diminished as sunsets ultimately do;
you have seen the dawn with its intense light and a bright star, too:
that star which always illuminated your path and spirit!
Now, don't cease to exist and vanish like a dark star...
peacefully sleep, as the dormant forest awaits spring!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
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Sestina
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Folding and embracing someone in extreme pain
with the compassion of a merciful saint:
when those moribund eyes look downward,
as breath becomes heavy and life can't sustain
its heartbeat , but those hands are too weak to clasp;
give your last gift, say the softest word...
Comfort and be comforted when the final hour comes for all,
when a person suddenly dies, a conceived baby will be born;
it's a cycle that keeps our human race from extinction:
observe the animal kingdom, never inactive or slow,
even trees and flowers duplicate themselves in jollification
by the kindness of every wind of the actual season...
Folding and embracing someone in extreme pain,
someone of a different race, not making distinction of color;
everyone of us is a beautiful and perfect creation of God,
so let the same love flow and leave your prejudice beyond:
see through the eyes of charity, never divide and compare:
the uniqueness of an individual can be shared by all...
The greed and wickedness of Mankind can't control the relentless rush,
until immense harm is done: wars are fought and lives are lost by the thousands,
and the spilling of blood is not regarded as guilt on their remorseless hands,
many weeping mothers lean over their dead children, with more viable in their wombs:
summon the evil man to the Almighty God whose judgement is harsh,
and be assured that the Divine Justice will make them toss in their inescapable tombs...
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
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Sestina
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Where's that ancient land where civilization began?
There...this disconsolate poet was born:
to tell whatever wasn't told on his return,
and to choose his tomb under the shade of a pine;
to be, somehow, comforted by the canary's song,
or the presence of the carnations that, into the warm rain, would shine...
Find such an amazing land by the deepness of the calm seas,
and the fresh scent of the Alps and Apennines;
foreign Kings governed it by their mighty cities,
and the occupied people never knew it as a united nation,
until it was liberated by a northern, courageous man:
Garibaldi... proudly called the hero of the Two Worlds!
Where's that ancient land where the Imperial Rome rose
on the top of the Seven Hills, where Romulus
was fed by a she-wolf? Legend, you say, but facts
may prove that everything that occurred was true!
O glorious Rome, all that's left of your greatness...
are crumbling columns ravaged by the storms!
When we read Vergil's writings and follow him in his travels,
carrying papyrus and ink to write when time allowed him...
we see impressive images of prosperous towns and cities,
and in Baianum he rested a day, then climbed the Mount of the Virgin;
and he gazed upon the lush hills and mountains of the country-side,
and heard the Nolans chanting and wailing when he died!
Where's that ancient land where civilization began,
and mild seasons adorn it with their vivid colors?
One can't help being lifted-up by a creation so breathtaking:
that God Himself was surprised in its making;
whenever you go, there are pristine meadows with wild flowers...
something compels the writer and the artist to return!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
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Sestina
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MY SECRET RIVER
~~~~~~~~~~
Its source some distance from its end, highlands.
A little trickle meanders a mile.
Pure, full of many forms of life, no fish!
Now babbles over rocky ground, the brook,
widening, now with banks, sticklebacks, the fish.
Water still pure, a stream has formed, o joy.
Its banks not high, festooned with flowers, joy.
Now some miles from its source in the highlands.
A sunny summers day, the stream with fish,
high banks, kingfishers nesting every mile.
Faintly, on calm days, hark the babbling brook.
Approaching river size, otters swim with fish.
Still growing, flowing fast, the herons fish.
Through wonderland, glades and glens, total joy!
From a trickle to sticklebacks, a brook.
The stream now some ten miles from the highlands,
river now formed, splendour, mile after mile!
Rapids, mini falls, salmon, what a fish!
Aquatic life amazing, birds and fish.
Anglers banned, this river no strife for fish!
A wildlife sanctuary, a smile a mile,
how I wish wildlife could smile their joy.
Walked its length, the sweet call of the highlands.
Several miles upstream, distant is the brook.
Its source a memory, likewise the brook.
The stickleback such a dainty, cute fish,
must move downstream, cold the winter highlands.
All memories for me, the birds and the fish!
Fishing with just a worm, much childhood joy.
Frail now, lucky if I can walk a mile.
Collect smiles in my camera, mile on mile.
My favourite smile, the babbling tiny brook,
gurgling, rapping, o so full of joy.
Then I remember, salmon, what a fish,
its leaping rapids, such power in a fish.
Tonight again I'll dream the highlands.
The highlands, many secret trickle mile,
some fish were found in the cool babbling brook.
The fish found downstream o what pure joy
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Sestina
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Sometimes it all feels like a dream.
A dream full of love,
Full of life,
And full of happiness.
It is as though I am surrounded by flowers;
Yet, every pedal stings like the nick of a blade.
A sharp, jagged blade.
Carving every inch of my body. Could this really be a dream?
I lie here, trying to escape, but I keep drowning in the flowers.
Even through all of this pain, I still feel the joy of love.
With every tear I shed, I still feel happy.
My world seems empty and cold, but I still feel the warmth of life.
I wonder if this is the end. If my life
Could really be taken by a simple blade.
I begin to stray away from my happiness
And realize that this is no dream.
I thought I was draped with love,
But little did I know that this garden was filled with malicious flowers.
I once felt delighted in the presence of a flower.
The cheer it brought made me burst with life.
I thought I knew the meaning of love,
But I never knew the pain of a blade.
It helped me distinguish reality form a dream
And determine what would truly make me happy.
It seems so far away, the hope of happiness.
The pedals turned black, darkening the hate within the flowers.
I close my eyes, begging for it all to be a dream.
Praying for a prolonged life.
I lay in the garden of vengeance, awaiting the pierce of a blade.
Longing for the compassion of love.
Not even a moment later, I realize there is no love;
Nothing that can make me believe in the existence of happiness.
Again and again I feel the torment of the blades;
The misery that began in this garden of flowers.
I feel my grip loosening, about to let go of life.
I am beginning to disappear like the memory of a dream.
At that moment, the light shines through the flowers.
My body fills with life,
And I finally wake from that horrific dream.
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Sestina
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I feel it in the hush of twilight's gentle glow,
where spiritual shadows dance in whispers.
An intangible force, unseen yet sincere.
A magnetism from realms where ego dies.
A profound vision influencing my mind.
A divine devotion connecting my heart.
I search for your sacred bond to heal my heart.
To touch my soul in your ethereal glow.
To enlighten the dark chambers of my mind,
I seek you in distant stars, tired from whispers.
Their silent light reminds me hope never dies,
as the moon guides me upon a path sincere.
At dawn your persona spreads in views sincere.
Blessings from sweet perfume flowers ease my heart.
In the birth of a new bloom, angst from pain dies,
as mercy spreads in a vibrant pastel glow.
Your presence lingers in soft and wise whispers.
A source of compassion soothing a tired mind.
Your zen grace pull me close, transforming my mind.
Read your stories in scriptures with text, sincere.
Heard about your legend from scholar's whispers.
I crave for you to complete this boundless heart,
so I can ascend to dance in stardust glow.
Embraced by love, where inner growth never dies.
Oh, eternal beloved, the darkness dies,
as you mentor like a lantern in my mind.
In black skies, I feel your cosmic wholeness glow.
Lead me through life's winding maze to be sincere.
My spirit in alignment with soul and heart,
has a true higher purpose through your whispers.
May I, forever blossom through your whispers,
upon a quest where fulfilment never dies.
For the path you've laid is the bridge to my heart.
Selfless like the sun you bring warmth to my mind,
as your rays transcend in messages, sincere.
I surrender to your pure mystical glow.
I'm a verse written from your poetic mind.
A flutist playing a flute in tunes, sincere.
A mouthpiece resembling your magnetic glow.
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Sestina
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O to give from ifs and buts free,
To feel happy, pleased just to give,
Feel good that gift is well taken
And that, receiver too feels good,
Charity’s not to show who’s tall,
Give as, to gift is good nature.
It is flowers’ innate nature
To flaunt fragrance and spread it free,
For ego’s sake nor to feel tall,
They give till too wilted to give,
By birth bestowed with this trait good,
Happy, their fragrance is taken.
Lamps like, its light’s lead is taken,
It is the lamp’s born-with nature—
To smoulder till they are no good
To do so, they wish light’s spread free,
For, lamps are born their light to give,
And care to feel good nor yet tall.
A cloud never shows stature tall,
Has always given, scarce taken,
Born with a benign bent, it’d give,
To rain, drain its inborn nature,
Its virtue’s to give, and give free,
It loves to find earth green and good.
Man condescends to give, feel good,
To show off his pedestal tall,
Seldom is his charity free,
Weighs: what in return be taken,
Give so as to take— his nature,
Born is he more to get than give.
Birds be or beasts, their best they give,
Not for any altruistic good,
Because that’s their innate nature,
Not to show off their stature tall,
Yon of things given and taken,
Birds be from all worldly ways free.
Alas, head rules and heart’s not free
To decide, head all commands give
In this world by head be-taken.
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Sestina | 01.08.2006, revised Feb 2023 | charity, heart
Poet’s note: Sheer instinct makes birds and beasts look after their newly born without expecting anything in return. But we as humans look forward to our children reciprocating when we are old, not do things in altruism. Why? Because man is being increasingly ruled by head, not heart, this Sestina feels.
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Sestina
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Every boy has his toys,
and each girl her dolls;
and as they grow they are put away where light can't enter:
there in that closet, which often memory recalls
how delightful and merry their days were,
but wishing for a return is a constant, useless prayer...
Everyone once had the possessions of a younger age,
some were precious and memorable, others simply painful and vacant;
and who can remember being hugged and truly loved by all?
Many still reminisce the sad thought of having been offered none at all,
and how they longed to have felt a little, sweet taste!
Nobody desired that more than I did, and only mother provided that!
Blue-bells seemed blither than I.. colored flowers that have no feel,
no soul to express their joy or sorrow, had I become like them?
Larks and mockingbirds weren't as malcontent as I was indeed;
all they wished for was some rain and the quietest place to rest!
Oh, how much sympathy I felt...with no one loving them, but their Creator;
and my circumstances affirmed how true that really was for me to declare!
An evil doer can be a father, who denies his children profound affection;
malice or thoughtlessness scars the hearts of the tender ones,
to become a malady or blight that leaves many fragments of broken lives;
and shouldn't someone grab them by the scruff of their necks,
and put some sense into them when they intentionally induce pain?
This snarl...rebelled at such atrocity, although no slaps could prevent those tries!
Husbands love your wives devotedly,
mistresses are the cause of your adultery;
would the faithful ones pursue an extramarital affair?
And what are the consequences of your sin and surliness?
A curse from God for many generations,
to deny your little ones the possessions of a younger age!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
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Sestina
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Sometimes I get lost in my dreams,
just wanting to escape this stressful life.
I lose my way in a garden full of flowers
and search for never ending love.
The sun shimmers from the sky in the summer
glorifying the beauty of nature.
Peaceful, unharmed, and experiencing nature
while I am in God’s country, it is not a dream.
The cotton clouds and fresh breeze of summer
fill my mind and body with love.
Woods full of animals; I didn’t recognize all the life
that surrounded the creatures like trees and plants
growing every day like the blooming flowers.
The howling, chirps, and grunts of animals in nature
searching for something, could it be love?
Only pure happiness survives within a dream.
Danger lurks and protection is the goal of life.
These living beings emerge for the summer.
A hoot from an owl in the summer,
who is hidden in the dark trees like buds on flowers.
Up high, away from predators and saving its life,
it looks down upon the traveling beasts of nature.
At night, the owl keeps eyes wide open and doesn’t dream.
In the morning, eyes closed perched on a branch to love.
A deer is every camouflage hunter’s love.
Killers mostly keep away in the summer.
A cornfield, apple tree, and salt-block dream,
the elegant animal waltzes through the flowers.
The brush welcomes the creatures of nature
to bed down and hide from the bullets of life.
You ask yourself, “What is life?
and respond, Full of living and love.”
To experience life and the miracle of nature
reminds me of a perfectly warm day in the summer
full of a variety of exotic unspoken, colorful flowers
of which will always define a perfect dream.
I will always be a part of nature for it is my life.
The open window in my dreams leads me to another love.
Sweet fragrant flowers pedal me back to the home of summer.
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Sestina
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With day full of sleep, moon falls in the river.
Its beams danced on water with shadows of trees
to a beat of rhythm from wind till it died
and buried in music of quietness of night.
With perfume of flowers giving weight to air
cool of dark beauty night’s peace granted prayer.
Cathedral as reverent as echoed Lords prayer
as gentle as songs by frogs from the stream.
Harmony hanging in a gemstone sharp air,
with touch of sadness as dim sparklers in tyrees
while chirping of crickets brings richness to night
This will be the hour which wretchedness died.
The stars in the heaven pronounces day's death,
still speaks of the coming of fresh morning prayer
as glorious moon-glow reigns above night
while weak light reflects off bountiful river
twinkling in beams through branches of trees,
gives a roar of stillness through paper thin air.
The sky and the dark and the shadows of air
The river, moon and the sun as it died.
As leaves slowly descend from generous trees.
An answer it seems to nights granted prayers
it all means little to approaching rivers
which has born witness of deceit of the night.
So quick in the darkness will charge storms of night?
Critical lighting strikes in tranquilized air
heaved by the wind once magnanimous river
thunder and rain, wind and foreboding of dead
comes terror and fear and murmuring prayers
amongst shacking of limbs and bowing of trees.
Fierce is the storm and with uprooting of trees
as wind rips and cries through cover of darkness.
All creatures will witness the dark Devil’s prayer
as thunder splits atoms of wild burdened air.
The night cannot sleep till storm’s ferry dies
and silence of night returns to the rivers.
Storms of the night and night’s peace granted prayer.
Shadows of trees and moonbeams on the river
but rising of sun will bring death to night’s air.
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Sestina
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Omnipresent is Joy
Barefoot morn walk in garden
Soothing sight of silky blanket of grass
Morning dew globules sparkling
As if bathing Blades in freshness
Greenery splashed on earths canvas
Buds swinging, radiant Natures canvas
Eager to unlock youth freshness
Flowers gleeful as butterflies perch joyfully
Esoteric on pollination in garden
Fragrance radiating, amidst grass
Aroma filled atmospheres sparkling
First Rays splashing golden on natures canvas
Aiding photosynthesis,energy joyful
Plant and human balancing ecological freshness
Plants in orderly arrangement in garden
Seeds germinating in silence with invisible sparkle
Sacrifice, seed for tree, uneven blades for uniform grass
Mountains, rocks forever fresh
Treasure of minerals,herbs,grass
Wall to rain bearing clouds,life of many gardens
Mother to many rivers, oasis in natures canvas
Treasure of minerals, herbs, grass
Seat of saints for Peaceful joy
Protecting ecological sparkle
Changing of Seasons add sparkle
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, varied freshness
Spice to atmospheric environment joy
Enthusiasm for new clothes, cuisine, party on grass
Nature bestowed different seasons canvas
Knowing, human love variety as desert love garden
Compassion garden
Love dotting rest of emotions as on blades dews sparkle
Inner light dispelling darkness in lifes canvas
Smiles, hugs, kisses, pats, way forward fresh
Individual joy as gardens each blade of grass
Spreading garden of cosmic joy
Futile is garden without dews sparkle
Cheer is soul of lifes canvas, inner search only lends freshness
Inner bliss smooth as silky grass, search futile for outward search of joy
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
© Hitendra Mehta
(Entry for Members Contest - "Joy to World” by Deborah Guzzi)
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Sestina
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People who crave as much leaping as birds
Those who are angry and seem to be furious
And those with a vulture's appetite for wealth
Drawn ones react similarly to owls when lured
Prideful people gird themselves akin to eagles
Those invidious postures as a pack of hounds
Avoiding war is crucial to developing wealth!
"War" in three letters! Have men bled, even birds?
War hinders all the delights, making us furious!
Blast, blood, heavy weapons, and army hounds
Yet judicious people who lack peace draw lured!
Innocent troops fight innocent lives alike eagles.
After wandering through biased realms, lured
Faces after faces elsewhere, such as eagles
Heroes perish, and fools utmost worry is wealth
Heroes are in tears, while cowards are furious
Cowards lie, yet they weep alike devoted hounds
We slip deeper into the abyss of lunacy as birds.
The laughter and fun flowed fast and furious
for the sake of saving the reward and vast wealth
The initial dread triggers prejudice once lured
I sobbed when the moon whispered to the birds
And visualize us soaring on the backs of eagles
Swung their deadly jaws at us such as hounds.
Greedy cries reverberate from the circling hounds
Often carried out to ponder, indignant, and lured
False funds, in fact, sprout wings akin to eagles
Arbitrary knowledge was fed by graft and wealth
The truth is that people are as soulless as birds
Recognition heralds the start of the shift, not furious.
Let's soar to hone our craft with doves and eagles
And reasoning from true reflection among hounds
Share the honey of flowers and the songs of birds
Set life goals to be reliable and truthful, not furious
With God's blessings, all is feasible, including wealth
If inner sight leans, retain spotless life, even if lured.
Infinite bliss sows the seeds of peace and wealth
A fervent need for union with God's bliss, not furious
Incentives from the heavens rain down like birds.
Written: April 25, 2023
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Sestina
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When the parents are gone,
the kids survive by heeding advice and carry on
their wishes by honoring their true intent;
flowers sprout and then bloom,
never living their fragile, little ones to a fateful gloom...
as sunshine nurtures them!
Glimpses may not give us a full image,
but they can reveal their glossary of life and death,
and it depends on us how to put it
into a consequent sentence and give meaning to it;
our parents raised us up to a certain standard,
hoping we'd pick up the slack where they left off!
And will we be elated by parental pride,
by doing all things that are beautiful and honorable...
great things that endow us with exuberance and fortitude,
to conquer every boundary and win every battle?
History can take us there, showing us the ones who fearlessly dared:
Moses who bashed rebellion and Jesus who lashed the whip!
Many will stumbled on life's deception,
others will cautiously follow its trail to wisdom,
to find themselves acclaimed by glory
and flourishing in their endeavors: they will find immortality;
and if anyone was deceived by the notion...
that nothing outlasts us, they are completely wrong!
There's no greater joy than remembering
how our parents leaded a religious life without a spot,
believing that obedience was a reward for longevity; and was
God ever put out of their thoughts...not fortifying
their spirits and making them stand on a solid rock?
Foolish persons shouldn't be pitied for their self-inflicted wounds!
The kids can survive by heeding advice, unfraidly facing their challenges,
alleviating their fears with the words that they received from the elders:
walking on a straight path, avoiding danger and harm, to live a golden youth
and a longer life...when most youngsters lose these to drugs and lust;
and with no gray hair on their heads and no stories to tell their granchildren,
who are the victorious ones that should declare thier well-merited crown?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
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Sestina
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Having been born in legendary Italy,a country
as old as the stones of the Via Appia,
made me recall the fiery image of Attila...
the barbarian from Hungary,
who dared to defeat the mighty Romans:
by sacking their imperial city with clanking swords!
Attila might have become the new emperor,
if he hadn't abandoned that land he came to conquer,
but golloped away...vanishing into the unknown:
remorseful or giving up on becoming great;
and some agree that he was as untaimed as a lion...
with a chilvalry to melt any woman's heart!
Many great battles were fought on this soil,
fortified by faith,valor and blood:
an Italy immortalized by Vergil,
Dante,Davinci,Michelangelo and Verdi: a legacy continuing today;
and I, as her native son, like to lead the way...
to be among these and not vanish into nothing!
Where I walked as a teen, castles rose towards
crimson skies to capture my fancy and hold me in wonder,
until dusk came with the tinkling bells; and sweet mother
called me...her voice echoing,with affectionate loveliness,
amid the pine trees and a garden of blooming roses;
there, at the gate's entrance, she waited with flowers!
From a tiny spring, flowing from the snow-capped mountains,
I drank the purest water and saved some in my canteen...
while my companions threw rocks at each other and told jokes;
and none of us were older than seventeen!
O golden days,return to vivid memory...
when we are taken by reminiscence to renew vows of loyalty!
By a bright lamp,I'll write these memoirs 'till morning,
and whenever sleep comes...I'm ready to hop in bed,dreaming
to be in Amalfi or Positano along the rugged coast of emerald...
listening to the murmurs of the gleaming sea,so old,
overlooked by the immobile stars and hear a happy mandolin play
a serenade and to be taken into eternity!
I'm finally there, retracing each footstep on a stony path,
running through the streets of my fled youth;
wouldn't I be happy to stay and find a place to rest?
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
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Sestina
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There are smells and sights and tastes which always remind
of Grandma with her rows of flowers bright,
the red of poppy the gladiolas white, the blue of spring violets vain
the scent of lilacs in the air and pine needles in the mix.
Sometimes too, the memory of her sweet breath does rise
of Black Jack gum or peppermint and all those summer times.
The search for new spout dandelions the mushrooms other times
And summer’s end brought black blue teeth a blueberry’s remind.
We’d dig for bait with cans of tin, Idella, grandma mine, and rise
from ‘neath the patched quilts of calico so bright.
By chance to fish within the stream, trout in our breakfast mix
along with silly shaped pancakes so placed on china vain.
The beauty of her sky blues eyes never was so vain
that wisps of salt and pepper hair gave time
its only claim. To rise like yeast a child within this mix
to hear a bark of terrier and feel Babe’s tongue remind
of childhood days a Grandma’s house. Idella our bright
find. Take those blessed tender hands and rise
Touch childhood cheek like dough of white and rise
have no dark dwelling thoughts of blue blood in the vein
the thinness of her fragile skin the dimmed light so bright
just remember love full of the better times.
And with the scent of venison and sizzling pans remind
laced with home made butter, fried onions in the mix.
How had Idella’s loveliness from German bloodlines mixed
together with the stalwart Grandpa Trussell’s rise
to birth the lively bunch of child my Mom’s remind?
When in the dark of night the rush of red rolls through my vein
mind light flies and flickers like the candle flame of time
and I return on winged horse within a dream so bright.
Smell the wood smoke from the stove caste iron bright.
See the siblings teasing cat and dog within the mix.
The mantle clock’s brass pendulum sings in time.
Hear the winter wind blow through the rafter’s rise
like tucked in chicks the storms blew all in vain,
now only grand kids live these tales and do remind.
Always in the darkest times I think of my Idella bright
and Gram reminds me of both joy and sorrow’s mix
soon like the wind on weathervane I'll rise to heaven and her kiss.
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Sestina
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My day starts with a cup of tea hot
Its steam ‘n steamy headlines in papers help boil the day’s plot
Nine to five make all efforts to achieve my day’s aims
Mind and body both it usually strains
Motto is to stick as far to the present
weaving past and future into its crescent.
Romance in evening is aided by the moon crescent
Red wine shots make it more hot
After dinner it is time to reassess the present
Tomorrow somehow sneaks into the plot
A warm shower helps to drain the day’s strains
Helping me renew my energy and aims.
I retire to my study to fulfill my imagery aims
To indulge in poems while admiring the moon’s crescent
which plays hide and seek with the clouds, and my eye strains
The scene in which the cupid’s arrows start hitting her hot
I get charged and run to find my own love’s plot
find her at terrace as she viewed the moon crescent at present.
Dreams of love and happiness we give each as present
But how does that help in the achievement of aims?
I try to scratch my head but do not get the plot
For the things of heart have invisible connection with moon crescent
The resulting low and high tides blow us cold and hot
In equal measure, causing us happiness and strains.
I try to sleep counting my happiness but wishing away the strains
I also pray to god that I stay rooted in the present
Over so many days I learnt not to worry unless iron is hot
this can happen if we get clear cut ability to decipher those damn aims
but things start to get hazy when out comes the moon crescent
and my attention gets tuned to the music that bush crickets yonder plot.
Falling off to sleep I am forced to loosen the strings of my plot
Off I meander on slopes which sprout flowers of different strains
From the slopes I can jump and closer feel the glow of the crescent
Becoming the king and receiving the queens in present
Having achieved everything I am left with no more aims
That is when I wake up to see next day’s sun turning hot.
Plotting the day’s programme again requires mind to be present
strains and stresses apart keeping a focus on the charted aims
Crescent moon providing the romantic touch later, with these expectations hot.
12.6.2014
Contest The Sestina Challenge
Sponsor: Jared Pickett
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Sestina
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Start
The other day I heard my friend was sad.
I met him to ask him about the reason
but, he was upset and his mood was very bad.
So I had to confine my conversation to the season
and the possibility of the advent of early spring.
I had to leave him in the existing state of his mind.
Why are we concerned about the state of somebody’s mind?
I wondered. Perhaps, we do not wish to see him appear sad.
Inherently, we want him to appear like the flowers that blossom in spring
to attract the bees and honey birds. This is the reason
why we relate all happiness to this auspicious season.
In our happiness we remember what is good and forget everything bad.
The mind, in its own way, reacts to the events, good and bad.
The behavioral pattern is a reflection of the state of the mind,
which is influenced, amongst other things, by the season.
During dull, rainy season, the mind tends to be sad
and one becomes irritated at the least pretext. The reason
why we feel happy again is the enchanting environment in spring.
Poets have written adorable verses eulogizing spring
There is happiness all around and nothing can be bad.
But, are we that blessed that there can be no reason
for any news or events to upset the state of the mind?
In a short span of time a happy person can become sad
irrespective of whatever might be the season.
If it is an icy cold, stormy night in the winter season
in stark contrast to the warm and colorful spring
and I’m holed alone in my log hut, I cannot help but feel sad.
I ruminate on my fate and wonder why my luck is so bad
I think of happy times and drive evil thoughts out of my mind,
only to increase my resistance to cold and not for any other reason.
If one is determined not to be happy, there are many reasons
to find fault with everyone and also the seasons
He sees only the negative side of things and trains the mind
to color the world in black and dampen the spirit of spring.
He fails to smell the fragrance, but smells only the odors that are bad
Thus giving him enough cause to feel very sad.
In the crevices of the mind there is some reason
For sadness to relate to the aura of the season
The spirit of spring brings happiness, while cold winter is bad.
End
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Sestina
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How to Feel When Your House Burns Down
The home you are raised in is a mother tongue.
I was four when it was built, an age when innocence
turns river water and all that lives within to blood.
First birthdays and first dances fortify the mantel.
This home transports milestones, our own vessel
to move us from sidewalk chalk to the attempt to outrun
the stagnancy found only in the debilitation of the long run.
At seven, I held him in my arms and love upon my tongue.
Promises danced on my lips and ran rampant on my vessels.
College funds started in a baby bottle, tiny wishes held in a cent.
I remember grappling with his growth, attempting to mantle
the affinity we pinky promised deep into our own blood.
At twelve, my father taught me to dance in the blood
and glass on the hardwood. Still, I watch his fingers run
to sow flowers in my mother's hair, her back, mantling,
the image of infatuation, true love, in our minds. A tongue
of tenderness has our childlike innocence
giggling and shouting at the inamoratas and the vessel
of devotion in which each of us was vesselled
into this life. Each of us was born in the fervor of blood,
so sweet. My mother threaded honey, burned incense,
and chewed lemon slices whole to hold us near. She ran
baths of salts and oils, to cleanse the ever growing tongue
of infernos that caressed, more captivated, our mantel
of consciousness. For many years, we tied sheets to mantels.
With pillows and blankets, we’d build ourselves a vessel
to a land of fairies and warriors who shared the same tongue.
Pool noodles became swords. Here we spilled blood,
convincing ourselves if we were to sprint, leap, run
fast enough we too could fly amongst the rest, innocent
to the world around us. At nineteen, I watch the innocence
leave our home. Adolescent memories that kiss the mantel
turn to sharp licks in the wild fire that is running
through the bones of our sweltering home, the vessel
of affinities, dances, compassion, imagination, and the blood
that connects it all, now lapped up with tongues,
too heavy for the innocent, a cancerous burn in our vessels.
The mantle of snow is no relief to the flames that drip like blood.
And still, we do not run, we wait for the final lick of a mother's tongue.
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