"bambino" poems
Dorme la corriera
dorme la farfalla
dormono le mucche
nella stalla
il cane nel canile
il ***** nel bimbile
il fuco nel fucile
e nella notte nera
dorme la pula
dentro la pantera
dormono i rappresentanti
nei motel dell'Esso
dormono negli Hilton
i cantanti di successo
dorme il barbone
dorme il vagone
dorme il contino
nel baldacchino
dorme a Betlemme
Gesù bambino
un po' di paglia
come cuscino
dorme Pilato
tutto agitato
dorme il bufalo
nella savana
e dorme il verme
nella banana
dorme il rondone
nel campanile
russa la seppia
sul'arenile
dorme il maiale
all'Hotel Nazionale
e sull'amaca
sta la lumaca
addormentata
dorme la mamma
dorme il figlio
dorme la lepre
dorme il coniglio
e sotto i camion
nelle autostazioni
dormono stretti
i copertoni
dormono i monti
dormono i mari
dorme quel porco
di Scandellari
che m'ha rubato
la mia Liù
per cui io solo
porcamadonna
non dormo più.
5.5k
Love has come Again
At a halt on our path
a field-scape lies.
The sky downcasts
a beige blankness
tucked into the horizon.
It is a scene, still of movement.
Then in an abrupt cloak of berries
the sudden plumage of a pheasant
erupts from its hedgerow covert,
a most vivid proclamation
of the season’s palette.
In these silent wolds winter’s wheat
has already sprung its green blade
from the buried grain . . .
only now to wait,
to wait in the cold earth
at our feet, to wait, then flower.
Love is Come Again the carol sings.
This is nature’s promise,
and yet hidden from sight
the story tells itself
again. And yet again
we pause and wonder
at its telling . . .
even as the light fails us
and a darkness falls
against this frigid land.
La Serenissima
There it was, high on an outer wall
of San Giovanni Battista in Bragora;
the church where Vivaldi was baptised.
Ruskin would surely have brought
suo scala a pioli to come close
and so sketch this tableau in relief
of Mary, her son and the Magi three.
But with il telebiettivo
its detail becomes forever mine,
and so is pinned during Advent
to my studio notice-board:
a ****** purissimo,
un bambino divine,
my Christmas gift
from La Serenissima.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
Nel mio cuore,
una fata dorme.
Lungo per i sogni,
sono una povera, piccola ragazza all'interno.
Per fuori, sono una ragazza coraggiosa e matura.
Pero, io non posso fingere che non voglio essere nei miei sogni,
dove si incontra tutto lo che mi piace,
tutto che io voglio.
i principe con gli occhi azzurri,
il castello bianco dove io vivo,
il cavallo bianco,
la carrozza bianca,
tutto bianco.
perche tutto bianco?
forse vedo tutto cosi buio,
crudele,
spietato.
La gente non voglie essere tu amici,
ancora meno riconoscerti.
Vogliono solo guardarti piangere.
Vogliono guardare cuando ti realizza
che non si puoi vivere nei tuoi sogni.
Che non sara' giovane per sempre.
Che non sei piu un bambino.
Prima o dopo,
sarai uno di loro.
amaro e apatico.
non ti sognare.
Non esiste il principe con gli occhi azzuri,
non esiste il castello bianco,
non esiste il cavallo bianco,
non esiste la carrozza bianca.
Non tutto e' bianco.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
SLEEP is a maker of makers. Birds sleep. Feet cling to a perch. Look at the balance. Let the legs loosen, the backbone untwist, the head go heavy over, the whole works tumbles a done bird off the perch.
Fox cubs sleep. The pointed head curls round into hind legs and tail. It is a ball of red hair. It is a **** waiting. A wind might whisk it in the air across pastures and rivers, a cocoon, a pod of seeds. The snooze of the black nose is in a circle of red hair.
Old men sleep. In chimney corners, in rocking chairs, at wood stoves, steam radiators. They talk and forget and nod and are out of talk with closed eyes. Forgetting to live. Knowing the time has come useless for them to live. Old eagles and old dogs run and fly in the dreams.
Babies sleep. In flannels the papoose faces, the bambino noses, and dodo, dodo the song of many matushkas. Babies-a leaf on a tree in the spring sun. A nub of a new thing ***** the sap of a tree in the sun, yes a new thing, a what-is-it? A left hand stirs, an eyelid twitches, the milk in the belly bubbles and gets to be blood and a left hand and an eyelid. Sleep is a maker of makers.
1.6k
The abstract acrobat
How you going to catch me with those tiny arms,
tiny dancer,
i don’t mean you no harm.
Those words you said went over my head,
and who needs a safety net when your safe in my arms.
Swing with me bambino,
i’m a monkey at best,
an ape at my worst,
I’m not sure what you expect.
Pirouette on those tiptoes that keep your feet on the ground,
It’s futile to get high if we never come down.
You heard me before,
purgatory flaws,
emerging to the sound of applause,
Those circus circumstances,
freak show romances,
We take chances beneath those bright lights.
Each and every night,
we take chances beneath those bright lights,
To the delight of the crowds.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
Felicità raggiunta, si cammina
per te sul fil di lama.
Agli occhi sei barlume che vacilla
al piede, teso ghiaccio che s'incrina;
e dunque non ti tocchi chi più t'ama.
Se giungi sulle anime invase
di tristezza e le schiari, il tuo mattino
è dolce e turbatore come i nidi delle cimase.
Ma nulla paga il pianto di un bambino
a cui fugge il pallone tra le case.
1.5k
He met her at a bar
in San Pellegrino
Yeah, like the water
but there was more wine
than water there
She was flicking a guitar
that she called "Bambino"
Her papa taught her
but she wasn't the kind
so easy to share
They slept inside his car
outside an old casino
The nights were hotter
than he'd ever find
anywhere
He said she'd be a star
but what the hell did he know?
**** gypsy daughter
broke into his mind
then left him there
She could only go so far
on his euros incognito
The polizia caught her
the guitar left behind
she'd tied him to a chair
She'd emptied out his jar
and his last good cigarillo
Shouldn't a brought her
she's serving time
Bambino in his care
He met her in a bar
in San Pellegrino
He said she'd be a star
what the hell did he know?
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 11:42 PM UTC
See the young one's shining face
Freshly joined the human race
Chubby cheeks and wrinkled ***
Flailing arms and little tum
A life of learning lays ahead
But rest for now your weeny head
What this miracle will be, who knows
With his tiny hands and feet and snotty nose
Stop your mewling now be calm
You're coming to no harm
I'll hold you for a little while
Although your shrieks do cause alarm
Why choose now, oh little one
To exercise those fearsome lungs
And then projectile squirt
Green ***** on my nice clean shirt
I'll hand you back, you look much better
In your mother's arms
I feel I am immune alas
To your supposed charms
Quiet now, would I hold?
If you don't mind I will refrain
If I may be so bold
Left with an odour, a downright smell
I must confess
I don't do babies very well
What relief, they've gone away
Give me a dog any day
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 12:51 PM UTC
You can’t say that the sky is clear today,
its colour isn’t the one of the Wisteria either
and the golden light (which is intelligence)
comes from it as the background of one of the
Madonna with Child paintings by Duccio or Simone Martini.
I can’t definitely say with certainty
that the sun melts in the sea to the West,
(West/Kill) if you have never seen the sea.
The trembling singing of a bird fades
with the noisy traffic jam on the road.
*
POESIA 4:
Il cielo oggi non può dirsi limpido
e nemmeno che ha il colore del glicine
e che la luce d’oro (che è intelligenza)
scenda da esso come il fondo di una Madonna col Bambino
di Duccio o di Simone Martini.
Non posso certo affermare con sicurezza
che il sole si scioglie nel mare a occidente
(occidente/uccidente) se non hai mai visto il mare.
Il tremulo canto di un uccello si confonde
con il rumore del traffico sulla strada.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
On a patterned nebula, paramour's giggle whilst locking warmly hand's, like two stray's of a different course, they runneth by none command's, all promises filled, as their cheek's do touch, like flourishing rainbow's, heaven to ground's lunch. They maketh their own commandment's, as tis the world's just a stage, grandiose in their delightment, making newsstand page. Bambino's of the unknown, covered in flamboyant flakes, overcoming the new-age step's, of this passing place. And whilst they art simpering, their taste buds over-runneth, their cup is not made from steel, but gold of king's and Queen's chalice. And whilst at dusk, when the blood moon cometh out, the neighbor's canst heareth their love, out the window's it doth bounce. Echoe's of their novela, they'll speaketh many tongue's, and whilst their alone together, their embracing head on shoulder love.....
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
Little ukulele
Played daily
In the sun
Grassy regale
All for fun
Chipmunks, squirrels, birds
Know how it's done
Rabbits belong
To the nature sing song
Animals dance
To the melody happenstance
Imagine with the mind
Birds struttin just fine
Like they've had too much wine
If she creates
They will not hestitate
Music vibe
Can intoxicate
Percussion beat
Sound treat
For tiny happy feet
That live across the street
Uke bambino
Prancing merino
String plucks
Chickens cluck
Mini wooden instrument
Becomes a friend
To them
When she's walkin with that little ukulele
Ever so gaily
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 5:46 PM UTC
The earth eclipsed the moon tonight
and turned that orb blood red.
The Sox just swept the Cardinals
and Bambino's curse lies dead.
Old Da had rooted Eighty years
but never saw them win.
Of Buckner, back in Eighty Six,
he never spoke again.
So first I went and bought us beers,
I got Sam Adams best.
Then I crept into the graveyard
where old Da takes his rest.
I poured his drink upon the grave
and raised my bottle high.
We beat the hated Yankees,Da!
Next year our banner flies!
All around me here and there
were Red Sox fans, my peers-
All celebrating with their Dads
and wiping back the tears.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
Dalla tua adolescenza
fatta di lunghi brividi ai capelli
e d'usignoli infitti alle tue palme,
sgorgava la vertigine di un giglio
esalante profumo di domanda.
Ah, l'immane fatica
d'innestare il tuo fiore prodigioso
oltre i tiepidi climi delle folle
a vertici di gelo!
Avorio concretato fra le mani
d'estremi crocifissi,
ronzio di spine ad ogni polpastrello
delle morbide dita,
e dopo rose, rose di stupore,
placide nevicate d'innocenza,
variare d'onde al largo dei tuoi occhi,
fissità di pupilla,
vedovi cigni solitari al corso
dei tuoi fiumi d'amore.
973
The winds may change each day,
And the tides may drift us farther away.
But I still believe in our red strings of fate
That they may coalesce once again.
Even though we're miles apart,
And I can't deny the pain in my heart,
I still find happiness in the small fact
That we're in the same reality,
Breathing the same air,
Walking the same earth,
And sharing the same emotions.
Worry not and wait for me, my bambino
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
Bambino,
se trovi l'aquilone della tua fantasia
legalo con l'intelligenza del cuore.
Vedrai sorgere giardini incantati
e tua madre diventerà una pianta
che ti coprirà con le sue foglie.
Fa delle tue mani due bianche colombe
e portino la pace ovunque
e l'ordine delle cose.
Ma prima di imparare a scrivere
guardati nell'acqua del sentimento.
678
Non è Amore. Ma in che misura è mia
colpa il non fare dei miei affetti
Amore? Molta colpa, sia
pure, se potrei d'una pazza purezza,
d'una cieca pietà vivere giorno
per giorno... Dare scandalo di mitezza.
Ma la violenza in cui mi frastorno,
dei sensi, dell'intelletto, da anni,
era la sola strada. Intorno
a me alle origini c'era, degli inganni
istituiti, delle dovute illusioni,
solo la Lingua: che i primi affanni
di un bambino, le preumane passioni,
già impure, non esprimeva. E poi
quando adolescente nella nazione
conobbi altro che non fosse la gioia
del vivere infantile - in una patria
provinciale, ma per me assoluta, eroica -
fu l'anarchia. Nella nuova e già grama
borghesia d'una provincia senza purezza,
il primo apparire dell'Europa
fu per me apprendistato all'uso più
puro dell'espressione, che la scarsezza
della fede d'una classe morente
risarcisse con la follia ed i tòpoi
dell'eleganza: fosse l'indecente
chiarezza d'una lingua che evidenzia
la volontà a non essere, incosciente,
e la cosciente volontà a sussistere
nel privilegio e nella libertà
che per Grazia appartengono allo stile.
720
drifting, drifting
half fearful, half willing
instead I fall into
something empyreal
I fall into you
your arms constrict
you hold me still, planting amative kisses on the once reluctant bambino
baby unfurls at once, letting out little sounds of
almost
venery
almost venery
almost venery
sunlight filters in through the little slit at the bottom of the blinds
as I am lit by my own alpenglow, a little by the **** a little by the scapulae
why do these phantom pains only become pains as soon as somnolence breaks?
I keep this in my heart.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
Frosted ivory undivided wings
Bambino of new beginnings
Hummingbird Ching's,
Ornamentations to be as sidewalks
Brisk in mountain image
A dask
A dusk
A pull
A scrimmage.
Frilly tress amenity
Angels do come
Devils leave,
As Flambeau's do garnish so lively!!!
Pekoe from ourn bouquet redolence
Wild sinner's and innocent
Sparked by fuse of Muse's poet...
Ride it
Moan it
A perfume of new days Macy's!!!
Parched
Hazy
Yet sun blasts in with all perfection
For thy queen of ressurection hast risen me
As Christ was the third day!!!
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
In light of the new found attention my boy is getting from girls I decided to have a talk with him… He is such a beautiful little boy. A little sponge of information as he stared up at me attentively with those big beautiful eyes….
Baby boy, women are the most valuable, beautiful beings on this planet.. They are pretty, sweet, instinctively want to take care of things and plus they smell good…. At your age you NEVER kiss a girl first!.. It is ok if they kiss you and trust me, if they want to they will at any age… It will get a bit more complicated as you get older…….. Many will hurt you, baby boy. Most without intent or malice but a few with all the intent in the world. You WILL learn something from ALL of them. Keep in mind however, Son that there is not necessarily true that experience will be gained in numbers. Rather the quality of the encounters. What 20 fast women would provide pales in comparison to the growth gained from one true connection even if it ends in heartbreak….. Always show manners and respect to ALL women. Even to; and often most, to the ones who lack it within themselves…. Make them laugh, they seem to really like that…….. Never EVER hit a girl. Even if you encounter a crazy one, and you will someday, it is NEVER ok under any circumstance……. My father, your Poppy always told me this one: Help with the chores!.. They like that the most………… Do not try to “figure” women out. They are not some puzzle ruled by specific laws. They are an ever changing form like water to ice to steam.. It is part of their mystique… Best you can do is be attentive to whatever form they have chosen to be at that particular moment in front of you…… You will have more muscle than most (there are always exceptions) but trust me on this one, they are always stronger. If you recognize this someday, you will feed off this strength and they will make you better…. Unless you did something terribly wrong, never chase after a girl if she has chosen to leave but do request for her to pause before she walks out and make sure you tell her EXACTLY how you feel about her and what you want before letting her go…… Love is not something you hunt, capture or convince…. Do not sell yourself. The woman that sees in you why she should stay on her own is the one you want…. Never trick, lie or manipulate any to stay with you… That is a “fools love pointless”….. That will also avoid you ever growing the cancer of jealousy…. Protect them….. TRUST ME, DO NOT TELL THEM WHAT TO DO…… Compliment at the instant whatever quality of theirs struck a chord in you. No matter how silly or how silly it makes you feel…..
Do you understand what you need to be, Baby boy?
He responded casually but with assertiveness, “Be a funny gentleman”…….
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:43 AM UTC
Mo accumencia l'anno nuovo,
è Jennaro, ch'alleria!
Cu 'a speranza e 'a fantasia,
tu te pienze ca chist'anno
forse è cchiù meglio 'e chill'ato...
quanno è a fine t'he sbagliato.
A Febbraio nce sta 'o viglione:
chi se veste d'arlecchino,
pulcinella o colombina...
e me fanno tanta pena
chesti ggente cu sti facce:
ma songh'uommene o pagliacce?!
Quanno vene 'o mese 'e Marzo
pure 'e ggatte fanno ammore,
ch'aggia fa? Me guardo a lloro?
'Mmiezo 'e grade cu 'a vicina,
faccio un anema e curaggio
e m'acchiappo nu passaggio.
Comme è ddoce 'o mese Abbrile,
tutta ll'aria è profumata!
P' 'e ciardine quanno è 'a sera
cu na femmena abbracciata,
musso e musso, core e core...
tutta smania e tutto ammore.
Quant'è bello 'o mese 'e Maggio
quanno schioppano sti rrose!
Che prufumo int'a stu mese
pe Pusiileco addiruso!
Stongo 'nterra o 'mparaviso
quanno tu staje 'mbraccio a mme?
Quanno è Giugno la stagione
vene e trase chianu chiano:
s'ammatura pure 'o ggrano,
s'ammatura tutte cose...
Pure 'a femmena scuntrosa
tu t' 'a cuoglie cu nu vaso.
Quanno è Luglio 'mmiezo 'o mare,
'ncopp' 'a spiaggia, 'nterra 'a rena
mamma mia, quanta sirene!
Io cu ll'uocchie m' 'e magnasse;
guardo a chesta, guardo a chella,
ma pe mme tu si 'a cchiù bella!
Quanno è Austo che calore!
lo nun saccio che me piglia...
Chistu sole me scumpiglia!
E te guardo cu passione:
volle 'o sango dint' 'e vvene
e nisciuno me trattene.
È chest'aria settembrina
ca te mette dint' 'e vvene
tanta smania 'e vulè bbene!
Nu suspiro, ciente vase
mille cose e 'o desiderio
ca st' ammore fosse serio.
Vene Uttombre, int' 'a stu mese
ll'aria è fresca p' 'a campagna.
Chisto è tiempo d' 'a vennegna,
si t'astrigne a na cumpagna
zittu zittu dint' 'a vigna,
nun se lagna e lass'a fà.
Chiove, nebbia, scura notte.
Stu Nuvembre porta 'mpietto
nu ricordo fatto a llutto:
nu canisto 'e crisanteme...
chistu sciore, che tristezza,
mette 'ncore n'amarezza!
A Natale, 'o zampugnaro,
'e biancale, 'e spare, 'e bbotte,
'o presebbio a piede 'o lietto.
Quann' è 'mpunto mezanotte
cu mugliereta tu miette
'o Bambino dint' 'a grotta...
715
The deserts' enigma as the sand tells stories of ancient civilisations, and the open air parallel suggesting stigmas of myth echoing apologies of Asian civil invasions. Wealth and Wisdom buried underground to hide the former faces, and so slow paces to mirages as a Man walks the ground to find the water oasis. Pressures of wind hugging to shape into a tornado, a Mother pushes waters to save the World with a Bambino. The inferno Sun sets on water or falls, crashes like a bashed tomato into lava erupting a volcano, but still rests on the water floor. Seas and Oceans are never cliché, but I feel farfetched where it's forlorn. See the emotions in my tears coz' I feel far attached before born...
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
Crawling to repair my median voices,
I bump my lumbering head along the curtains
Picturing a light evaporating out of masses
A sculpture modeled in my deep-seated mountains
I'm about to begin a brand-new journey,
as all my letters and signs are falling airily
Grit is granting me with a glowing crown
No slices are left from my earlier dawns
A rapid switch hit on my pavement,
like losing memory and diving in
a lake full of velvet and blinding diamonds
My lot is sleeping in covering wings
Another morning emptied of tongues
I do a humming like bambino birds
My pen blushes when seeing my pump,
as wine of this pulp turns into dust
I steam to tie the stars, and I sink
in a giant maze of origami planes
I pinch every no-man's land, in a blink,
pour them like milk in a pan sitting on flames
When snowflakes rise as bubbles of calligraphy,
and symphonies catch back their delicacy
My wizard's iris drinks the clouded chords
Veins wrapped in purple, as it snows in my globe
I'm bordering the gate, into writer's crowning sun
I inscribe this poem, to salute ladies and gentlemen
my hand waves to you, as eclipse calls
This is not a break, just a swing of my bipedal poles
My silhouette hikes in an elevated air,
like a pat ballerina climbing up the stairs
Bolting bulldozers, with feeders into the orb
A crystal punch radiates downtown's corpse
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 3:49 AM UTC
Late afternoon, the darkness is about to steal the light
We are about to head back down the mountains of Mindoro
A fire and smokes all over the trees, a "Kaingin"
we encounter a family of three camouflaging the forest
Looks like "Mangangahoy" making charcoal for a living
A heart-crushing-afternoon scenario
There is a man, who looks like the father
An old woman seems to be the grandmother with a little kid,
small and as cute as a button
We barely see them as they're covered with dark smokes from woodfire
Our truck stopped, offering them a ride
The father loaded the sacks of wood
The little boy trying to lift it with his bare little hands
so small but he seems can carried heavy loads
It's almost dark
we sat at the back of the truck cargo bracing ourselves
praying not to fall on a bumpy mountain road
This little boy is beside me
Indifferent
I look at his adorable-plumpy-little face covered with dirt
Eyes glistening with innocence
A little jungle boy
An angel of the forest
he reminds me of Mowgli
This bambino inhaling wood smokes daily
working at a young age is a definition of a heartbreak
something made me tear up inside
it comes to a point where you don't know what to feel at the moment
Reality is hurtful
and the hardest part is handling your emotions
This kid deserves better
every kid in the world deserves better
Circa 2019
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 2:59 PM UTC