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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
A calling that must be obeyed--
bloodied and broken he lies,
the battlefield he makes his home,
fallen like a gladiator of Rome,
hearing his brother’s last cries--
with a bullet in his heart he dies.
Oh the artist he could have made,
even Picasso would he surpass--
a gentle brush stroke brings life,
instead he sleeps by his knife,
all the medals he would amass--
his bloody world of iron and brass.
There was music in his soul--
a prodigy like Mozart in his youth,
his name would live on for ages,
as his composition floods the pages--
then we ask what is really uncouth,
taking innocent lives or concealing the truth.
A more fortunate man digs a deep hole,
the last few pages of a journal revealed--
as Vienna in the time of Shakespeare,
he could never really find his place here--
death upon words that would have healed,
here lies the warrior poet in an open field.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
T-minus ten to launch,
strapped into destiny's seat.
No turning back for safety,
engines rumble at his feet.
Meanwhile in the cosmos,
beyond the speed of light.
A wormhole forms above,
that turns day into night.
Blasting across the heavens,
the stars race frantically by.
A rocket consumed in twilight,
vanishes from the obsidian sky.
Hurling into oblivion's portal,
tossed around a neon void.
Beaten parts of hull ignite,
and his body never destroyed.
His soul transcends time itself,
carried to a genesis unknown.
Even though he feels nirvana,
he discovers existence alone.
That glimpse of our creation,
crashing into unholy space.
Burned out bits of shuttle,
in the final resting place.
In the distance bending orbs,
the center universe divine.
Earth a thousand years later,
will some day see him shine.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
The foam from the Macchiato,
goes well with a dash of cinnamon,
Or an espresso made long or short,
depending on what mood you're in.
A caffee latte for on the go,
with a biscotti goes quite well.
Enjoy our capuccino con panna,
you will never forget the smell.
If you are looking for a kick,
a ristretto is what you need.
A wake up call to start the day,
that will bring you up to speed.
Mocha chocolate in a milkshake,
for the sweet tooth connoisseur.
The crushed ice is at the bottom,
do not forget you have to stir.
I am always at your service,
for your afternoon time java fix.
So bring yourself a book and relax,
and try this exotic coffee mix.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
It was something like night time;
half past nine o'clock and fully dark--
I remember how the winds blew,
the trees outside shook with winter
and it was cold for quite a while--
I watched how the frost nibbled
at the oncoming guests, none alike,
holding onto their gifts so proudly--
I wonder, what was even so important
that they would wade through snow?
The smell of grandma's home brew,
put my mind at ease, never bitter--
never once bitter, or too strong,
or too mild, it was as if she knew--
the troubles I would endure.
All my cousins, and their cousins,
uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces,
three and four generations together--
dishes and furniture would break
and all together, a hypocritical chant.
These pretenders and false believers,
like vultures that glide for a meal--
I shake my head, my hands tremble,
I long for rest though it is hours away,
another piece of cake and a smile.
Another sip of the Colombian blend,
the taste is sweet, my throat, soothing--
my lips feel honest and serene,
nothing can take this from me--
no, not even this empty crowd.
There is a great deal to speak of,
judgement is passed with the salt--
I do not wish to hear their voices,
for their problems are all my fault--
and I, must seal up like a vault,
more ripples in my cup of coffee...
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
The rubicon is crossed,
thirteenth legion for glory.
Augustan,publico pro bono,
behold the untold story.
Marched into all Rome,
flags of the republic burn.
Demons threaten his name,
and say they shall return.
All hail justice reborn!,
Caesar, men will know fear.
Battle drums retired now,
nobody guarding the frontier.
Bingeing under empire skies,
baths with foreigners galore.
Wavering peace for the rich,
an abolishment of the poor.
The years passed quickly,
Cicero's return with his scars.
Trampled Rome so defenseless,
once again burning under stars.
Hung from the Romulus gate,
tyrant now in history's stones.
Curia of Pompey never tainted,
with Julius Ceaser's bones.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
Over three thousand miles across,
an ocean that whispers her name.
One dream comfortable in loss,
two hearts beating the same.
With lucid eyes never fading,
like painted sky tearing through.
Lovely images reflecting beauty,
spiraling heavenly shades of blue.
Sweetened lips placed perfectly,
cloud-like kisses foretelling grace.
Lipstick marks from past adventures,
taking refuge in my warm embrace.
Pearl white skin, brilliant in color,
cheeks emitting blood ruby hues.
A masterpiece among modern art,
supporting a lonely painter's muse.
Beneath her bosom gently waiting,
tomorrow suffers from her cry.
Holly, the name encased forever,
all her troubles within me die.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
This summer breeze
upon my menacing blade,
no kaishakunin, only emptiness,
empty mindedness,
unafraid
The Hokkaido seas
restless like a school child,
stir within my cup of tea
empty mindedness,
beguiled
Mountains of Sakura
fill me, nor here nor there,
a million of my memories
empty mindedness,
despair
Bushido, my creed
is like the lotus in bloom,
Nihon hear my cries!
empty mindedness,
doom
My beloved wife
wear your gossamer gown
like the moon wears the night
empty mindedness,
facedown
My prodigious son
sheath your political sword,
this is an age of declaration
empty mindedness,
soared
Sincerely, truly yours,
the masks I leave behind
are desires now outlived,
empty mindedness,
blind
The final scene
my rising sun, peaceful sky,
and with the absolutely true
empty mindedness,
I die.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
We called him the dooch or the mini,
who puffed all his dope like a chimney
he would grind up that budd,
like a crip or a blood
and rolled up two blunts and a skinny.
The very first time that he smoked,
his chest became swelled as he choked
and he tried to inhale,
his complexion grew pale
passing out from the buzz that he toked.
Eventually he learned how to puff,
and of course he was feeling so tough
deciding to pop in a shroom,
something so new to consume
but the amount was not nearly enough.
The days and the nights became long,
he thought deeply about getting a bong
the thrill from that weed,
was all he would need
a world with no right and no wrong.
for Dom,
Il vero scrittore non mette mai tutto nel suo libro.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
Kiss these lips sweet Caroline,
mama wants you home by nine.
Cotton panties, gin and tonic,
an ink serpent up your spine.
Summer nights by river side,
every type of drug you tried.
Giggling at all your little lies,
that you could never really hide.
Black mascara never missed,
eyes are blackened from his fist.
Yet you live inside photographs,
where your happiness does exist.
Colored hair blues and whites,
eyes that lighted up the nights.
Tears for love that is unknown,
laughter followed all the fights.
Oh dear Caroline, please be mine,
display your magic with a sign,
The world may see your darkness,
but in my heart you always shine.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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Marcello Colasurdo Poem
There was something about this place--
so terribly unknown,
and though I fancied its mystery
I felt so alone,
an old abandoned dock, a shady-- house on a hill--
the same wardrobe of twill, in this city of stone.
All the years, misplaced and dreary--
I notice the gnat,
fluttering neath the window pane;
it's wings timid and flat,
how lucky that creature would-- someday be--
so determined and free, a silencing splat.
Lovely, I thought, this quiet scene--
my flattened friend,
two legs still manoeuvring aimlessly,
the others embrace the end--
how simple and fragile--a finespun dust--
yet you I trust, but will not defend.
Four glass panels, light passing through--
a heavenly invite,
your ticket stamped for an eternity,
why continue on to fight?
why attempt to scramble--around and about--
for a God without, not an angel in sight.
I am your vigil, your watching eye--
I will, stand here and watch you die,
I count the minutes--till sweet release--
the sign from whom shall grant you peace,
yet no soul beckons, or heeds the call--
no one my friend, no one at all.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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