Out on the road in the middle of the night,
I made my way with no one in sight.

Hugging all the tight corners and vrooming on the straights,
Burning tyre rubber at alarming rates.

Little did I know at that hour along the next turn,
There'd be another person.

With the wind in her hair and one of the most lovely face,
She rode her little pink vespa with amazing grace.

I happened to have crossed paths with her in a traffic rule breaking fashion,
A move I made with deadly precision.

Instantly she uttered that lovely swear word with a sweet loud tone,
"*******" she said, raising her ******* alone.

Wrong I was and would've apologized if I could stop,
But in a hurry I was and a high speed it all to top.

Late that night, those stream of events ran through my head,
I pondered on it as I lay in bed.

Swear words! Instantly blurted in the spur of the moment,
Yet originating from the heart's deepest cavity and vent.

Pure to the core,
No hidden meaning they store.

Swear words may have been considered in appropriate and shunned in the world,
Yet they convey what a person feels most appropriately when they are hurled.

Inside my helmet
First my right ear then my left
Asks my mind to scratch.

Cabana, cheese and mustard sauce
Do grace the tablecloth,
White puffy clouds and warm south breeze
And joy in chilled beer's froth.
Hot sun doth bake these stony walls
Sweet mandolins do play,
And the pigeons peck at breadcrumbs caste.
And all fares well today.

Young darting men on Vespa's
Ply their arrogant good looks,
And those stunning senoritas
Strut their stuff while momma cooks.
Monsignors in scarlet robes
Do scurry through the town
Dispensing Catholic action
To any soul who is around.

Madonna's guard the roadside shrines
Where hot seal winds aloft
Toward the craggy mountain pass
And pastured alpine croft.
The peasant woman bends her spine
Trudging forth with strain,
Wood ******* piled upon her back,
Up hillward bound with pain.

Old men sit and ruminate
And watch the young girls pass,
Whilst nursing dark retsina
In an opaque thimble glass.
The olive trees look stately
In their crooked ancient way,
And cast a darkened shadow
Where the roosting chicken's lay.

And out across the mounded hills
The patchwork quilt of farm
And out beyond that deep azure
Of Italian coastal charm.
Seaward to horizon
The aqua blue intense
Extends as far as eye can see
Mediterranean immense.


Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
23 January 2010

I have fallen in love
With the air, the trees
The thinly paved and often cracked roads
And even moreso with those covered in cobblestone.
I have fallen in love with the tanned locals
Old shopkeepers with hats and bifocals
Their calling voices
The natural movement of their hands
The cool sea water
And hot white sands.
I have fallen in love with espresso
And how it feels in my throat
The smell of leather
Taste of gelato
Harbours full of fishing boats
The sound of a vintage vespa
Weaving its way through a crowd
The arguing couple, arguing loud
And this is a country of which to be proud.
I have fallen in love with the architecture
The vast and complex history
The more I learn the more I admit is a mystery.
I have fallen in love with the way the sun shines brighter
The air is fresher
And the fruit is sweeter
The men are bolder
And the books are cheaper.
I have fallen in love with the words they say
And how those words effortlessly roll off their tongues
I breathe in their culture
And try to hold it in my lungs.
Pizza, pesto, cute cafes
Absence of anxiety, holidays
The tourists who view it all through a camera lense
Adventure begins and tension ends.
I have fallen in love with it all
Every flower
Every hue
All those pairs of knock-off sunglasses
I love them too.
Every cloud
Every ray of sunshine
Every drop of ***** riverwater
Every painted line
Every brick
Of every church
On all those hills
In all those tiny towns
That populate the green countryside
And every visionary who in them has lived and died
I love
But most of all
I have fallen in love with the version of me
That comes out when I am in Italy