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Best Poems Written by Phil Capitano

Below are the all-time best Phil Capitano poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Ode To the Hydrangea

ODE TO THE HYDRANGEA

Misunderstood little Mophead,
They call her ‘Changing Rose’,
Her colour comes from the soil
And the acidity in which she grows.

Chorus:	Water in her name,
		Water in her veins.
		Blue Azorean stranger,
		Nothing rhymes with Hydrangea.

Graceful in the half-sun,
She turns pink with added lime.
At home in the Himalayas,
Found globally over time.

		Water in her name,
		Water in her veins.
		Blue Azorean stranger,
		Nothing rhymes with Hydrangea.

Not a flower but a shrub,
Grandiflora and Annabelle
Splash their petals radiant,
A most hardy perennial.

                Water in her name,
                Water in her veins.
                Blue Azorean stranger,
                Nothing rhymes with Hydrangea.

Details | Phil Capitano Poem

Dear Humanity:

Dear Humanity:

You know I love you, right?
Stop calling me Mother Nature!
I hate that!
Genderless am I…
Oh, yeah, I get the ‘bring life forth’ bit,
creator of new life, pregnant with your desire
…yada, yada, yada,
my womb is your hope,
my anger your demise.
You have dominion over me?
Get over yourself!
Not the life-force, I wobble,
buoy in a black sea,
world in flux.
Some of your tribes cajole me
with Songs of the Good Earth,
their rhythms heal my rivers and plains,
my blue veins, renewing rains;
good vibrations make mountains grow.
Others try to dominate me,
defile, desecrate and destroy me.
Written in the Book they say,
patriarchal sons of kings.
Climate change deniers my enemies.
Poor, dear, naïve humanity,
my icecaps are melting, oceans swell,
water will consume the land.
My extremes test your resolve.
I can live without you,
is the opposite true?
Homeostasis, my cycles of life,
the seasons my command.
Are you so balanced?
Don’t fight against gravity,
there is no escape.
Eagles soar and lions roar,
your footprints on the shore,
all these shall pass away.
So if you seek immortality
then keep your home sacred.
Love all of me,
every rock is my child,
every grain of sand a seed,
everything you do to these,
you do to me.
I am Gaia. I am home.

Prayer for the Summer Solstice 2017

Details | Phil Capitano Poem

Coffee

COFFEE

Coffee is my medication,
Savoury warm embrace.
Supplies me with motivation
To get me through rough days.
Should I stumble, should I fall,
I’ll get a kick at ten.
Java is my drug of choice,
The closest thing to zen.

Coffee is my meditation
When I have the time
I slip into the lotus position
Then I calm my mind.
Slowly as I sip on it,
As I’m sipping breath,
The closer to the source I am
The further from my death.

NOTES:
This was my first poem to receive POTD and I was thrilled when I found out. It gave me the confidence to pursue markets for my work and as a result, this poem Coffee (or rather a portion of it) is being used on the website by a vintage copper coffee machine manufacturer from Belarus. I am very proud of this.

Details | Phil Capitano Poem

If Poets Ruled the World

IF POETS RULED THE WORLD

If poets ruled the world
laws would be written with panache and... 
oh yes, compassion;
civil liberty in fashion.
Carpetbaggers fold up your tents and cash in.

Poets. like mothers, 
would never send their brothers to war.
Poets don’t have voices that sound like guns,
words can bite, incite,
but history is made by men who fight
not for wrong or right but might.

If poets ruled the world
every city block would have a park
for birds and dogs alike,
with a path for bikes and soft ice cream.
Trees would be everywhere, cars even fewer.
The whole damn system flushed down the sewer
if only poets were the rulers. 

If the world by poets was ruled
hunger would feed on the deeds of honest men,
perhaps not Zen but a blend 
of now and then, form and function.
Tear down the walls of corruption in government,
make way for equanimity, grace of femininity.
So let it be known and forever shown
that poets should rule the world.


Dec 21/18
NOTE:  This style is one I developed and is called a SCIRPO which is Italian for weave or twist.
It is characterized by a rhyme scheme that wraps around itself in no particular order.
Also, each stanza adds another line moving from 5 to 6 to 7 to 8 lines and so on

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A Rose For Rita

Here’s to the travellers,
   the passengers, the tourists
who trek this alien landscape
   in search of experience.

Here’s to the resilient,
   the adaptable, the survivors
who chose uneven ground
   and made a path for others.

Here’s to the dreamers,
   the poets, the believers
who see the cosmic cycles
   of life, death and rebirth.

Here’s to the family,
   the siblings, the bonds
that protect and comfort
   because love is never lost.

Here’s a rose for Rita,
   for Les, for Reen, for Mom
and all the souls we’ve lost
   who have gone home again.

For we are the aliens,
   not of this Earth, interlopers,
we belong to eternity
   and to eternity we shall return.

NOTE:
     Last night, Aug 20, 2019 my sister Rita Rose (her married name) lost her battle with leukemia and kidney disease, passing behind the curtain peacefully, joyfully returning to her husband Les whom she lost just nine months ago. Our mother passed only two months ago at the age of 92 while my brother's wife Reen died in April of 2018. Please send your love to Rita's daughter Heather and her grandchildren.

Details | Phil Capitano Poem

Dance With Me

Writing is dancing with words...
     a titillating tango with verbs delicious...
          a sultry waltz with rhythm and meter...
               a hot rumba with randy adjectives...
                    a forbidden dance with unnamed nouns...
                         if this has not left you wanting more
                         then I shall dance with words no more.

Poetry is a pure passion play
     of alliteration and words dancing in line,
           a quick-stepping, twin-tapping salsa,
		a seductive rhapsody in rhyme,
		     moving metaphors, measure and time…
			   my love is wrapped in this poetry
			   so will you please come dance with me?

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Crematorium

dead
bones rise
in ashes,
furnace spews clouds
smelling putrid smoke,
tongues consume bodies all,
aeolian whispers fan
Varanasi’s fierce appetite,
prayer flags wave like a wick of hope
while the ruddy Ganges silently flows

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Swallow Whole the Moon

With mouth open wide
I swallow whole the moon
hoping to feel the tides
deep within the womb
of my feminine side
allow this man to bloom.
Pregnant with ideas
I am giving birth to poems.
These rocks, rivers and trees
are all my native homes,
a glossy jagged marble
to sanctify these bones.
So look above no more
upon the seas of night
to search for Luna, grand,
no orb will grace the sky
for I have snatched her fullness
and ate a great moon pie.

Details | Phil Capitano Poem

Mountain

MOUNTAIN

                                                   I
                                                 used
                                            to be stable,
                                       dependable, granite;
                                    a mountain holds an echo
                               like a lover’s kiss. Once holy parts
                       of me are crumbling away, eroded by betrayal
              ~ that shifting precipice, integrity ~ that landslide, my honesty. 
              ?   How long does it take for a mountain to become a boulder?  ?
           Geologists know the answer but you don’t care, you have a pickaxe ?
   and the desire for security. If a woman asks you to give up your mountain-ness,
no matter what she needs the rocks for, in exchange for her love, refuse indignantly; 
                                       it is not a fair trade.

Details | Phil Capitano Poem

Sometimes

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror
I see my brother’s face,
I quiver with recognition.
As time takes me,
so it takes my eyes, I reason,
a trick of the mind.
Just sometimes.

Sometimes, when I’m working with my hands
I see the hardened hands of my sister
who slaved to keep her family together.
Only sometimes, 
then I give my head a shake.
Not real, I defend.

Sometimes, when I look at my feet
I see the worn shoes of the homeless,
the refugees in search of a place.
I remember the long, hard road
and compassion forms in my throat.
Just sometimes.
I wish I could see that way more often.