Short Puccini Poems

Composer Giacomo Puccini
a master of musical repartee five
From a lineage of five
best to hear his operas live...

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it
   is
       so
           quiet
      here
no
noise..
       then
       a
        voice
          singing
trilling
    so
      thrilling
a
supremo
     supreme
to
soliloquy 

Inspired by Puccini angelica...

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La Boheme Series Haiku — Mimi Dies


songs call love ~
bread with wine beg warmth ~
too late come some chances granted



——————————————————————
————
(c)sally young eslinger 6/2022
Thanks be to God
With hugs, dear Puccini...

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I have begun a short haiku series based on my favorite opera La boheme.  This haiku may begin the series,not sure.  Hoping for feedback.  Thanks for reading.


le bon homme Puccini smiles
white magnolias
by concert halls bloom


—————————-
(c)sally Young eslinger 1/14/2021...

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I loved her sorrows.
We shared a mask
that we spoke through -
a mail-box for wordless hungers.

Passion maimed us,
even I shed tears sensing
a Puccini last act.

She read herself in my face;
I gave her long-range forecasts.

She endured –
desperately believing
that I would always be there
to mop up....

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I fell in love with her sorrows. 
We shared a mask that we spoke through,
a mail-box for wordless hungers. 
Passion maimed us,
even I shed tears, sensing
a Puccini last act approaching.

She read herself in my face.
I gave her news;
long-range forecasts
of more disappointments to come.
She phoned her mom....

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I loved her sorrows.
We shared a mask that we spoke through -
a mail-box for wordless hungers.

Passion maimed us,
even I shed tears sensing
a Puccini last act.

She read herself in my face.
I gave her long-range forecasts.

She insisted, persisted –
a desperate belief
that I would always be around

to mop up....

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Why does everything have to smell like dung?!?

Molecules wafting up my nose
Forgotten meals
and friends
and good times

Isn't it bad enough that the Puccini disk skips
during my favorite song,

or that I have to use gas station napkins
for toilet paper?

scrape off mold from the block of cheese?



Maybe I just stepped in it....

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I fell in love with her sorrows. 
We shared a mask that we spoke through,
a mail-box for wordless hungers. 

Passion maimed us,
even I shed tears, sensing
a Puccini last act approaching.

She read herself in my face.
I gave her news, long-range forecasts,
but she insisted in her desperate belief

that I would always be around 
to mop her up....

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I fell in love with her sorrows.
We shared a mail-box for wordless hungers.
Passion maimed us,
even I shed tears, sensing
a Puccini last act approaching.

She read herself in my face.
I gave her news;
long-range forecasts
of more disappointments to come.

Lastly she phoned her mom;
she alone on that stage
she had erected for all such
one act
theatrical performances....

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All followed the lore, drawn to the cultured door
Arias rushed in score with Puccini lovers galore
All to hail in glore, the cherished Master's store
Then, the ROAR!  Gratitude for the first drawer
Cries, for MORE!   Then, came her sweet spore
In awe to adore.  How could hope seek to ignore?
Welcoming rapport.  A shared hope for an ENCORE?
No one need abhor.  She said YES to the dance floor...

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Oh my dear Mama 
I am in love with her 
I want to go to Port Rossa 
To buy a wedding ring 
Yes, yes, I want to go there 
And if my love were in vain 
I'd go to Ponte Vecchio 
And fall to my destiny 
I struggle with this tormenting 
Oh God, I'd like to die
mama have pity on me
mama have pity on me


To be sung to "O mio babbino caro" by Puccini
You can find it on YouTube I suggest Maria Callas....

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puccini in the distance
ka-bobs on the grill
wine deep in the glass
freedom is near

dogs on the porch
smile as you absorb the sunset
tasting the nectar of conversation
intermingled with salty and sweet

the hand of the one you love
reaching for your shoulder
softly
followed instantly by
a knowing movement towards
the approaching touch

the shared glance of  communion
and
freedom is here

unbelievable days of letting go
allowing the moment
to steep in your soul...

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That evening it rained.

He was glad the diva was dry up there on the warmly lit stage.

The cold rain found every opening in his casual attire,

rivulets ran in runnels seeking out soft parts.

He decided he disliked Puccini outdoors.

He imagines that the dark haired beauty,

the one now singing, chest heaving,

offers him shelter beneath those ample bosoms

she looked the kind of lady that would.

An hour later he swooned away,

wheezing in Tosca's arms....

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