The setting sun urged holiday makers
To roam around the Venice canals.
A thousand and one lamps helped
The gondoliers to find their way
As he sang a lovely love song
And pleased the lovers as they sat
On comfy cushions on the boat
Occasionally stealing a kind kiss.
Stare at the twinkling beautiful stars
Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes,
List and learn, ye dainty roses
We're called the gondoliers
And this is our song of love.
Venice knew what love meant,
Even when they traverse the bridge of sighs.
They wondered how many crossed
To their doom. But that was ages ago.
Now the bridge was decorated with lamps.
Oh, what a beautiful sight it was.
Solitary gulls lead all to Piazza San Marco.
The lovers looked in awe at the tourists.
They paid the gondolier handsomely
And descended on to the vast square.
They found a table and ordered
An espresso and a tasty pizza.
It was expensive but worth it.
(In the year 1800, the opera composer Domenico
Cimarosa was expelled from his native Naples and
he took refuge in Venice, in the cold north. He
didn't know it, but he was already dying of cancer.)
I’ll never love this leaden northern sky.
New Year is here: a thing to ponder on.
Though teeth may trouble us, we still have work –
suggestion, resolution, solo, chorus:
despite my egg-and-dart, my bead-and-reel
I get a neat percussive Mozart feel.
You want the moment’s fad? The coming trick?
I love to see Anzulo’s melon-seller,
as unexpected as a tarantella.
Look elsewhere. I’ll keep on with quick-slow-quick.
Thank God we never know what lies before us!
Both man’s ingratitude and dropsy irk.
The century begins with number one.
I suddenly feel old – I don’t know why.
Some late blooming occurred in the seventies
when 'Hey Jude' and the sunshine in her head
went public.
She settled into a craft shop, gently molested
by Applejack and Californian Skunk
until a self-image exploded.
An aftershock of rainbows continued.
Ruckle lips roam a now manic makeup.
Gainsborough hats trump frizzy kablooey.
On the boardwalk, she stands palimpsest,
a fragmented journalism of more colorful times.
She turns to her subjects, smiles, not for the camera,
but at the one thing that detonated her
back when she was just a girl
with looking-glass eyes.
The Kodachrome is Venetian-dusk.
The photograph still perishing
from its vintage exposure.
On the back of the image,
bleeding to invisibility,
a telephone number.
The London area code is quaint,
only a young man on a ‘Triumph’ motorbike
could trace it now.
I still want to.
there was a young man named Dennis
who staggered from a pub in Ennis
he thought he boarded a train
but woke up on a plane
and found he was headed to Venice
the doors are gorgeously done
as is the ornate design of the entire building
a complete package, not difficult to find in Venice
Old world magic, in the form of architecture
created by some of the world’s finest artesians
not found in many places, but found here
I take a photo, but it will never be complete enough
too flat to fully express the expressions of this beauty
I wonder how many creators worked on this archway
and the balcony above it; was it done all at once
or did someone add these touches one by one afterwards?
I take six more photographs, knowing they will never be this awe inspiring.
That's the Venice door showered with beauty!
Where loneliness is daily on duty,
By its side, a small pool just sailed two boats,
The occupants are most probably ghosts,
If they're humans, they must be real cuties.
First I saw of this was in Djibouti,
But that was left decrepit and sooty,
So, for elegance that beauty denotes;
That's the Venice door!
The decorations are made quite pretty,
It's like from a last century movie,
Flowers even near the pool that boat floats,
It's the clean surrounding that makes wealth gloats,
Stamps of opulence colors it pretty,
That's the Venice door!
Monet in Venice
a flock of pigeons treats him
as just a tourist
Sun-kissed stones, where shadows play,
Whisper secrets of a bygone day.
Grand Canal, in sapphire dressed,
Reflects the love within ones heart.
Gondolas glide, like whispered sighs,
Through water streets, beneath soft skies.
Bells peal songs, from ages old,
As stories in our laughter unfold.
Wisteria drapes, a fragrant veil,
As twilight paints the heavens pale.
We steal a kiss, beneath the moon,
In this Venetian, love-lit swoon.
Brick bridges sigh, with age-worn grace,
As cobblestones embrace our pace.
Hand in hand, we wander free,
Lost in this timeless tapestry.
And when we leave, with memories bright,
This magic place, will hold our light.
For in this haven, love's flame burns true,
Forever Venice, me and you.
Now, I suspect the economics teacher
But he suspects me and
The case goes on into the term
As we gently move
From one story to another
But I've got all the other plays, so they look good
Break time and lunch time
Offer time for time to call witnesses
Or suspects one by one
They file in looking confused and disconcerted
Like ordering a sandwich in a trench coat
Tripping out and seeing floating cheese
I'm trying to engage in a conversation
I'm trying to teach with a blocked ear
Zedonks and why IKEA has no windows
That play's rubbish anyway.
Al Giorno: his wierded world
he pay's more than the others.
the same sound.
The pound around
they beat drums
and rub oil on one another.
sweep the floor
it's a chore
don't ignore the windows.
I'll gift you seets
and some
pasta and meates
keep your interest contraul.
done.
Produced.
or occurances daily.
I love this part
I smile when you pay me.
Mr. Al Giorno
sign your name
Champion your position
no middle man.
To take a stand
tell the world
what their missing.
I was thrilled to what the handsome gondolier wore
black and white striped shirt, straw hat,
red bow dripping off back of hat….
like Sophia Loren films from the sixties
hostel life
you never know with whom
you'll share a room
a cappuccino
or
a piece of life
Fatima is not her name
just what she goes by
in Turkey if you're Kurdish
it's safer to be a Fatima
in Dublin she can be (her Kurdish name)
it's just something she doesn't
want to get used to
in Venice, Kaldoun asks in Arabic
what I think about the war
In the phone we share
I tell Google
I hope it's the end of Putin
he reads my words (in Arabic)
and replies
many children will die before
the end of Putin
gives me pause
there needs to be talks
a political solution
he says
I agree
but is there any talking to
a malevolent tyrant?
we must try he says
a little sidewalk cafe where
for most of the morning
we fill the Venetian air
with Arabic/English conversation
striking deep chords
about humanity (and inhumanity)
a young Jordanian chemist from Munich
an old school teacher from Arizona
and Google….
where would we be
without Google
Some late blooming
occurred in the seventies
when 'Hey Jude'
and the sunshine in her head
went public.
She settled into a craft shop,
gently molested
by Applejack and Californian Skunk
until a self-image exploded.
An aftershock of rainbows
continued.
Ruckle lips roam now
a manic makeup.
Gainsborough hats trump
a woozy kablooey.
On the boardwalk;
she stands palimpsest,
a fragmented journalism
of more colorful times.
She turns to her subjects,
smiles, not for the camera,
but at the one thing
that detonated her
back when
she was just a girl
with looking-glass eyes.
heptastitch (2,4,6,8,6,4,2)
boat bridge
odd corridor
the Ponte di Rialto
first way to span the Grand Canal
eleven eighty-one (1181)
a bunch of boats
crosswise
wood bridge
better by far
the Ponte di Rialto
unique for shops built thereupon
twelve hundred fifty-five (1255)
but wood is weak
collapse
stone bridge
most durable
the Ponte di Rialto
unchanged in four hundred years plus
since fifteen ninety-one (1591)
marble marvel
inspired
foot bridge
still used today (2021)
the Ponte di Rialto
one of three hundred ninety spans
which link the islands of
veritable
Venice
May 28, 2021
contest: Heptastitch
sponsor: William Kekaula
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