#italy poems on Hello Poetry

Willy Shakysphere Jun 2017

The red light of the sun
Slowly descending
The sky is all I see
It’s never ending
We could fly
You and I
On a cloud

Music on the hillside
Piano in a villa over there
Violin below
Fireworks above
A beat – a beating heart
Someone begins to sing

The red light of the sun
Slowly descending
The sky is all I see
It’s never ending
We could fly
You and I
On a cloud

Is this place real
The ocean below
The red sky above
The music
Romance on the wind.
Sing with me

The wind plays with the leaves
The weather turns colder
But as long as we believe
Love doesn’t get older
We could fly
You and I
On a cloud

Only after one leaves
Does this place become real
A crown jewel midst a rocky cliff
A place so beautiful its
Memory etches itself into your soul
Food to die for
Drinks to fight for…

On a journey of the heart
There’s so much to see
When the sky is dark
You’ll be right here
Right here with me
Good morning I vow

I've never been to Positano but it is a place I know more about that any place on earth. Someday - maybe - Just imagine a whole hillside of villa's, open bars, condos and eateries as the backdrop for the Amalfi coast. When the sun goes down music fills the air as occasional fireworks dance off and explode over the Mediterranean. I hope that someday - someone who has either been there or goes there responds to this poem. I'd love to hear of your experiences there.

#mediterranean #positano #italy #music #amalfi #coast

Àŧùl May 2017

Emerging India!

The under 17 football team of India,
It has beaten the Italian team, yeah!

My HP Poem #1548
©Atul Kaushal

#football #soccer #under #17 #india #italy #beat #by

Danika Apr 2017

Pietro Giannone

this night isn’t over
grab my hand
and my heart

4/17/17

#npmmicro #love #beginnings #rome #italy

Laura Slaathaug Apr 2017

Show-and-Tell

In first grade, I brought my music box and
baby frame from we lived in Italy to show-and-tell.
The frame showed me bald like an egg, half-smiling
with my length and weight written
with my full name across the middle.
It was something small to prove
something I couldn't remember.
Before I went home, I put the frame
with my music box on the floor by my locker--
Then I turned and found under my shoe
the shattered pieces of the frame.
A sense of loss twisted my insides,
like when you can't find your cell phone,
with all your photos and
messages you treasure
A piece of your life is stolen.
But a friend lends you a phone,
you break up with the boy
who sent you those messages and meet someone else.
That was how I learned to do it,
by gathering up the broken pieces
and bringing them home in a paper grocery bag.
When my mom said it couldn't be fixed, I believed her.
When she said not to worry, I still did.
She said everything was going to be OK and it was.
She lifted the lid of the music box,
and we heard mandolins playing once more.

Day 6 of National Poetry Month. Prompts: Fortutious poem and NPM changes

#italy #napowrimo #npmchanges #fortuitouspoem

KB Mar 2017

it's hard to tell whats pretty and what's bad

roses peek through the cracks in your soul, your heart is overflowing with peace but your eyes remain dark brown in the sunset, is it because your flight to italy was cancelled in the middle of your worst year or because the constellations that you kept shining in your right palm; the hand with the zigzag scar from your last rollerblading accident, were given to someone who didn't even know that thorns came with soft petals too

#peace #eyes #roses #soul #constellations #italy #sunset #thorns #softness

Miss Clofullia Mar 2017

#hope

it was a normal day:
in the metro, a tall guy was giving
oral stress to his girlfriend
for spending too much time on her phone,

angry mothers were killing it at Fruit Ninja,
aiming only for the green items;
all because of some article on vegans
they read on Bored Panda,

students were kicking it on Tinder,
deciding their political views
in the same time,
with simple left & right swipes,

Romanian women were being abused
in Italian FarmVille games,
while the cucumber production
was growing and growing,

it was a bad day for poetry;
all the good words were on strike!
the streets were empty
and all the traffic lights were red.

I was still hoping there was hope in this world.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cdvk7O3Tz6A]

#hope #stress #normal #italy #game #bored #oral #farmville #romania #panda

blue Jan 2017

l'italia

il colosseo roma in leather-scented dusk grips the night, marble hand on woman's thigh; these evening breaths are half-lit by awning lights and candle-flame laughter. waiters serve wanderers searching for home under the light of the half-moon – they don't tell us that these shores have too much mystery for us. some homelands are sun-steeped histories cradling darling secrets between ancient bricks, ancient tombs.

the amalfi coast whispers seashell lullabies to the old-souled man plying whiskers of melodies out of his tin-flute, traipsing in a pit-patter down the sandy road leading to the ocean beach. he watches drowsy-eyed windows blink pulses on the beach – they caress us to sleep in lulls and crescents.

the florentine memories are all mine - bacchan dreams; how you turned my head away from the window, wrapped me in whiteness like newborn's skin. you, the child of a mountain spring where gods were born - the softness in your neck betrays this to the doves. heartbeat an adagio in old italy, heather scent stirring the air like eye of newt in witches' brew. love, your body like a holy city – lamplit streets between dusk and dawn leave little to the wishes of the heart.

italy, 2015

#love #italy #travel

Robert D Levy Jan 2017

Wistful for Florence

Up the hills, past villas, small groves and arbors.  And by the Duomo, which, I swear, moved into our path no matter where we went.  The fifteenth century refuses to yield.

That giant rival, Milan, now resembles Hartford: large and gaunt. Rome, thief of the renaissance, remembers Mussolini and Berlusconi more than Leo X, who yet lives in Florence, returned to his Medici home.

Florence is the butter of civilization’s milk; nourishment of the flesh churned by hand.  The art, the food, the social structure, even the soccer sated in turned, sweet cream.

Fresh oil, fresh wine.  Old recipes.  The bread remains salt free. The tripe looks ancient.  The streets forever too narrow.

#italy #travel #florence