Seasoned Antonio Vivaldi the 'red' priest
so prolific he could not cease
The Red Priest preached his violin sermon,
His baroque interpretation
Of the seasons’ fickle whims.
I listened closely to the soothing concerti
And came to the conclusion
That though we may have been passionate lovers,
It’s just as sure we never were friends.
Now all my wounds have been healed
In a hardened lump of scar tissue,
And I make no issue with ghosts from the past.
My intentions are wholly benign,
Though my motives are hard to define.
Even Vivaldi could be overly sentimental at times,
Engaged in a contest between harmony and invention,
To fill the night with program music tension.
Antonio Vivaldi FOUR SEASONS
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Vivaldi tunes in.
violins play breathtakingly fast-
Four seasons pass in one day
Antonio Luccio Vivldi
the free spirit from Italy
A composer this Red headed Priest
ever in 'season' prolificacy never to cease
Priest Antonio Vivaldi of Venice
wrote Farnace an opera piece
It was Vatican barred for 300 years
happily in 2022 we now will hear
Vivaldi’s Violin
The sound begins vague as a thought from perhaps
a misted remembrance made more distant more soft
in the surrounding sunset not trusting eyes only ears.
I sit up and listen indeed stretch all hearing as music
surely music more than the wind’s whistling moves
ever closer alerting me to a whole physical smiling
through the opened backdoor I cast my sight past
the silhouetted trees of early December past
yellow-glowing windows of neighboring homes and on
past the twinkling white low-altitude warning lights set
like many a Venus on the horizon I notice I am
not frozen from weather but rather awaiting a sign as
a startling soloist continues Vivaldi’s allegro non motto
violin in a love affair with nature a secret in splendor
a flying to heights just beyond human
ears or prayers in this courting of my soul and its
further reaching in Winter III Allegro that could lift
the twilight ever more than experienced in dreams.
***********. ***********. ***********
(c) sally Young eslinger 12/3/2020
Thanks be to God
Each season spans a quarter of a year
cold winter days can bring pure white snow,
Wintry sunshine makes snowflakes disappear
but little children don’t want the snow to go!
Spring breezes in, making the gardens bright
fragrant freesias release their sweet smell,
Many colorful flowers bring such delight
I can almost hear the chime of each bluebell!
Summer hopefully brings lots of sunny days
when we can spend time beside the sea,
Enjoying the warmth of the sun’s rays
golden sunbeams make people happy!
Autumn, the most glorious season of them all
I’ll kick through crispy leaves on the ground,
Orange pumpkin’s are aglow when children call
and Halloween trick and treater’s come around.
2/24/20
uplift
my heart
dispel
distress
cast off
despair
begone
music tingle
my spine
emotions
realign
half dreaming
...dulcet
slow
gently awake
'twixt night
& reality
still
in no man's
land
now engaged
open
ascending
higher&
higher
presto
spinning
round&
around
escalate
&wait
a repeat
unfolds
phrase
by
phrase
skates
then
slides
stirring
into
action
continuous
exhilaration
echos
on repeat
from
edifices
of sound
strings
that sing
harmonized
into one
played
breathtakingly
fast
dispel
my disquieting
thoughts
April tuned to Vivaldi's music,
Pour porto into your glass with ease.
Just open gas valve in the kitchen
And breathe...
It’s a Vivaldi winter...snow as far as the eye can see,
blankets the hardened from sub-zero and sleet.
I hear the violins and cello’s, groaning out forlorn winter notes.
Robins on a white roof are poufy with feathers thick;
bellies swollen in gratitude for my suet cakes.
Like many, I cannot leave them cold and hungry.
Were it so, that I could invite them in for a
hot chocolate and cornbread, I wouldn’t hesitate.
Sleet-covered, tree-sticks, lend a suggestion of fairyland;
naked trees, frozen in time; a Vivaldi winter scene to trump, “Currier and Ives”.
My eyes trace the rabbit tracks, from icy,
snow-laden shrubs to my naked fruit trees;
rabbit finds no dinner there;
perhaps a squirrel left an acorn or apple, buried nearby…
Mr. Rabbit will stake his claim.
I wish him luck; I know he has little ones beneath my garden shed floor.
Lethal ice cycles, grow from my gutters as Vivaldi winter notes, drone on;
I sip cinnamon spice tea and whisper a prayer, for God’s other children.
VIVALDI PHRASIS
O faithful shepherd dispel my
disquieting thoughts of love
toward my shepherdess.Let
harmonic inspiration of extravagant
improvisation and invention flow
from my lyre and piccolo as I
withdraw and rest;just one night of
sound of the goldfich and nightingale,
instead of Spring,Summer,Autumn
and Winter harmonized into one.
From Vivaldi musical titles translated
Listen to me read this phrasis on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro
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