Meander

Rain of Tuesday, flowing in wet seams;
watery rivulets run along road sides;
to faraway, vanishing in rainy streams;
I see you smiling, in my college slides;

A maid within Autumn mizzle to dance,
it was a September to recall, euphoric,
in blissful years traveler, stare askance,
occurring in my austere, hard life Doric.

In Boston Aquarium, with seals laughing,
Used a Minolta camera and Rokkor lens
eyes full of surprises, curiously asking,
inditing words on palms, with Cross pens.

Oettinger GTI races to one hundred sixty
black plummet bellows on P7 to reckon,
upon a meander path in woods, misty,
Alpine sounds a mystique fog, to second.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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My luck was going first

My luck was going first

Your face is a token of impiety for heavens' realms
And your form, a drosometer, counts my open arms

Ccorpus of the other worlds a false-key, to paradisos
decline of up-streams instinctive priorities to abyssos

An deep inhale of perfume, inspired my auto-aesthesy
it was a God to expire me upon your spirit's ecstasy.

Non bearing my uppish stand, forever strange of you
Supercilious, albeit absurd, expedite my morning dew

My souls convection transmits on winds' caressing
languages of strange forms, expire years of sensing

Excursions of my altered souls, latent worlds inside
Unequal destinies of, I refused, describing of Hades

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Among all Gifts

Among all cards I 've chosen a queen of death,
I folded it amiably, so I became a sinner;
Atropos smilingly, I swear, became my friend;
a deathly poker game with me the winner;

A dim shadow; waiting in crossroads forking;
under the cemetery bells, glooming,
to marry me in nightly fog, cerberus' barking,
in Stygian necromancy dark looming;

Among all gifts I 've chosen a smile of death,
her dreamy form, a descending glimmer,
falling upon a hard cement with back of neck,
as I was lifted in mid air by a shimmer;

Dryads lifted me in Acheronian excursions;
so soft was the blessing, and unreal,
child of my loneliness in nine dimensions;
in worlds of emptiness, to dream and feel.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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I Wished I Was il Tuo Zitoni

Mephistophelian spaghetti
are stalking on my confetti;
demonic tortellini hobnailed
to take me away have failed.

Stupido I was to trust ravioli,
I chomped all thy Mostaccioli;
Passegiare con i pennoni,
Dare not touch my rigatoni.

Sono inanorato con le rotelle,
tu sai, mi piaciono le tagliatelle,
stop stalking le mie bavettine,
Sto sognando linguettine.

Do not touch my garganelli,
I was not ready for passatelli;
ungraceful sinister Mafaldine,
giocano con le mie Tripoline.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Aphotic day

Aphotic day, apt to confront
your own failures and engage
in battles a loss is an adage,
or a subscription to far beyond.

Odd time to submit a virtue,
where winds underline empty,
your solitude and war hefty,
where dangers declare untrue.

Concealed day, a wind ringlet,
rotates scopes - just to care,
path is kissing this odd pair,
Hades and an accessing bullet.

Sentry guard to one odd link,
could be a next century yon,
prowess insists on lost agon
your far stars on Dome blink;

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Febbraio fogs

Winds are blowing a grievous fate,
it's cold upon our fingers and dark,
ghosts prey howling on lone hark,
we came in life, one verse too late.

Winds are barking like stray dogs,
alone I wait for your icon to appear,
from our deserted (once alive) Pier,
where you smiled in Febbraio fogs.

And it is strange to feel you there,
you never left the winds' lone call;
I feel the flow in my veins to haul,
a string of fables on nostalgic fare;

And you appear - half on my mind,
'n' half in distance, to fill my eyes,
gray clouds snow from low skies,
doleful turns our dusk and twined.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Red wine Of May

Red wine of May

I 've never seen your icon front-straight
some weeds on a deserted slate
I was looking for a Sunday...

My hands clenching the windows ledge
searching a crucifix sharp wedge
one sorrow of our May...

You turned in, a later feast, became
(of these nights only a claim)
a barren route to travel.

How many routes upon ocean ways
to travel along our fog's haze
to far away marginal isles?

I didn't meet you in those cold nights
you were in clay bricks and lights

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Kiss a Nave

(Kiss a Nave)

I remember our prayers, of dim purview
as in a hazy mist our roads coincided
I see a painted blue window in misty dew
a parallelism to seize a cause one-sided.

Were our roads deceits of broken asphalt
a cold feeling or a debt on every station
you wore a pendant, of a bright emerald
and a carved Siren's smile of negation.

The Auster blows to whirl clouds of dust,
surrounding the place of your pedestal,
my outside dreams from domes glassed,
kin ghosts will blow my walkway coastal.

And as the wind caresses me like fingers,
I smiled to my solitude, a warm welcome;
to stray ghosts on paths memory lingers,

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Oh, mia bellissima

Men dream of dames' angelic perfection
brusquely are inspired by divine strophes
because females are conferring affection
to those who survived war catastrophes.

Gallant warriors expect dames' embraces
and when noblest ladies bestow honors
a whipped cream cappuccino leaves traces,
on their beards and darkened colors.. (lol)

Oh, mia bellissima, soldati sing to the gals,
donne will throw roses amore to comprise,
while uomini cantano from Venetian canals
atop gondolas, alzare their baritone highs.

Enigmatic eyes stare erotically from blinds
as the bearded gondollieri amount on arias
the well-favored dames involuntarily grind,
as flower petals unfold, pensieri di dahlias.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Utopian Mirth

Sea waves spelled aright hours on my path;
I thought: Beguiling is the ocean, my Lord,
White pebbles on shore on a widest strath,
Between me, lone stars and an harp's chord..

Sea waves responded; a well crafted pate,
of foam and pine needles, so I became a tree,
Crowned with my words' string, a freight,
To carry on forever, with free wind and sea.

A tree with his evergreen bowed branches,
To accompany north wind's utopian mirth,
Accord of solitude, on draft modes attaches,
Stringing notes of return to a comely berth.

Zephyr spells estimable calls and breathes,
Upon my orisons, entreaties and retentions,
And I am an iron boat rusting amid wreaths,
Perceiving goals, gallivants fair excursions.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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