Beloved Porcupine
Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine,
Confirmed it is; earth turns around a critter,
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.
How could thee misbehave to a crit benign?
sly vulturettes desired the round flitter,
Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine.
Now who will stand on supermarket line?
guilty thou art, dishonored and quitter,
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.
Thou shalt nought mistreat a love so divine
In slopes thy porcupine will slide 'n' skitter,
Doe not betraye thy beloved porcupine
Thy porcupine cared for Italian, to dine;
In poem verses betwixt, embraced emitter,
thee were bacchic, sipping bottles o' wine.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Thyrsa Of The Rocks
Thyrsa comes to the mount spring;
fresh water in the jug to pour;
the nightingales are there and sing,
her untamed feelings to soar.
Thyrsa fills her heart with notes,
her songs lyrics make foliage dither
for this pain takes no antidotes,
the singing nightingales spell hither.
And as the lyrics rise to heavens,
and render modes of the wind,
palms join with his name engraven
on her betrothal golden ring.
He left her world with a promise;
one Sunday they 'd meet in church;
thus she waits for a mail's notice;
the roads daily, her eyes search;
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Cumulus High
Caressing air currents above fly
and of pure holiness care to bestow
spirits in poetic paths will imply,
when rain falls on our night meadow.
Amid tales and attended words,
a harbinger sings a gentle aubade,
as Sun smiles to melodius birds,
or Uranus' mizzle streams cascade.
Up there our souls maybe meet
to share a moment of absolute joy,
beatific clouds beckon to treat
a beau of your eighteen years coy.
I think his icon in cumulus forms,
will become eighteen, you to escort,
homecoming queen who responds,
with him standing tall, dance athwart.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Evadne of Thrace
Out on the faraways of spring,
nimbus become his sky passage,
marginal trips fulfill his dreams,
his bike's tuned up in clouds' garage.
He rides on slope t' orrow bethel,
man's sanctum soul in cold embrace,
R-six steel block roars on methyl,
engage onto Mountainous Thrace.
On wet asphalt Metzelers hold,
titanic torque challenges death,
on border life and Thracian wold,
in Belstaff thinks not of digress.
The metal knee cups spark on ground,
snow flakes on his full face Shoei,
steep slopes resend untamed the sound,
and thousand cubic mean strings play!
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Arcanum Bride
Arcanum Bride
She came to me, unspoiled maid an' fair;
remote echo of church bells, on Sunday;
her face was angelical in droplets of air;
she flied into nothingness, there to stay.
She flied amid cumulus to bestow drops;
Acceptable by me were, her gray clouds;
Amid my dusk shadows above tree tops,
Imparted were her Fall's mizzle shrouds;
There I was, arbiter of an arcanum bride,
amid tenths of heaven's scents, in ambit,
a spread of nimbus favored me, but cried,
her glance was a rain dance and splendid!
She stared at me from yonder stills, airy;
Utopian reality to overreach me lifeless;
Trumpets of Angels played in notes merry,
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Cantlets
The wind is blowing. In my blooming field
fragrant! So, I said, My heart be steady
my solitude blossoms latent to yield
a Sunday noon, dim oracle it was and shady
A lonely song cries, in the wind, I said,
brings a murmurous voice, she comes lithe,
and I respond, it is a feast, my timid wed,
my loneliness, loving was a Hades scythe.
I kindly my wrists, I said, I kindly offer,
to a deity that stares, that stares iced
in Hades, my life then will belong to her,
pastoral, lifeless I 'll wonder and demised.
So, I said, to mountains and clear springs,
I wanted to be free, with her to away fly,
a sempiternal wedding not to accept or rings
not to connect our destinies and see her cry.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Bilgeways Hold
(Bilgeways Hold)
Bilgeways hold. Boat 's atop the blocks
timber 's under the keel, the chain-bolts,
bumkins are hawling down the fore-tack
the timber daggers and the gun-deck oak.
Hours walk, I bonk the timber false heel,
incinerate tar to blusher upon main keel,
chocks of upper deck fay across the apron,
hammer the nails, arrest 'em 'n scout peg.
Sweat dribbles, hammer drops on dagger
drops trickle down the floor and swagger
my muscled arms rustle, bitter to befit
abridge the shafts scout and fix the bitts.
Brawn arms on sluggish job, head together
two strakes hooked, gunwales to foregather
as sinews work on manly effort and hoist
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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She called me in the wind
She called me holy inside the wind, her wraith;
Befallen souls of angels live and nest,
Twas in my heart, a matter of false faith;
Mistral of dawn, glare to invite, and saith,
'Of sea ghost nymphs, doe flye in foam's blue vest'
She called me holy inside the wind, her wraith;
Pearl skies, sea birds to fly on May the eighth,
On faraway was she but not to best,
Twas in my heart, a matter of false faith;
Enchanting wraith she was, conceived, on staith;
Prevailed thence time reversed, but to divest,
She called me holy inside the wind, her wraith;
On sole appeal, invokes on dawn war graith,
Adventures on sea trips, I conquest,
Twas in my heart, a matter of false faith;
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Andromache
Andromache, widow of lucent Hector sleeps
in front of the hearth while silence
descends the night invading from east,
in her epigrammatic kindness and guidance.
Mournful oblates to the call of Stygian ripples
(cause meritorious Hector was in duel killed,
together with her kin by invincible Achilles) ,
now a concubine of Neoptolemus, her fate unfulfilled.
From the son of Achilles, she begot a son,
who was destined to rule upon a strong race
Molossus clan reigned over Northwest land,
where Putonian Hades kingdoms base.
Andromache sleeps and remembers her son,
(Heroic Neoptolemus went to Hades forever)
while Helenos of Troy, her pained heart won,
to rule in Epirus and from her never to sever.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Forelands
A commotion runs amid my mind
a crush was, on the track barrier,
and the flight; with winds to bind,
where our childhood voices alter.
I went high; in paths of negation,
Steady to aim at my engagement,
do not consult your one desolation;
and your lone dark star adornment.
Was it your call? Amid woodlands,
shadows cast your dusk and crying,
stand tall; on conceived forelands,
a pasture you once loved 's undying.
With bells of home Church ringing,
on each Sunday you 'll hold the tear;
twas against a soldier's upbringing,
to let solitude comrade you near.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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