"cacciatore" poems
Walking along on the shingle spit
At Keyhaven near to Milford on Sea
You can almost touch the Isle of Wight
Less than a mile away o'er the lea.
Crab-fishing next at Mudeford Quay
With Lizzie and Sam on the nets
When off flies my hat which then lands in the sea
Chase is given but I’m taking no bets.
Later, me new-hatted, we sit by a pub
Enjoying our lunch and a chat
And we laugh at the turn of events in the day
Particularly at the flight of my hat.
Wearily later to our lodgings we go
Chicken Cacciatore for dinner, by me
We then all collapse and nod off to sleep
This just always will happen by the sea.
©Joe Wilson – A Windy Day by the Sea…2014
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
I do not shriek at bedtime, when the bad
cacciatore twitches in my belly,
and the mushrooms knock
a fearful tattoo at my throat.
Instead, I glide through the vestibule
of shadows that lies between
the bedroom door and the mattress
past the closet's maw - a crypt
from which I have exhumed many
a princess whose sweet caresses last
only long enough to cuff my trust
into terror; their butternut breath on my smooth
cheek scratching valleys down which my tears
may flow into my open mouth where
the salt tingles on my tongue as I cloak
my doom with the incantation of the innocent:
"If I should die before I wake...."
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 7:49 AM UTC
She emerged from the mist of a never ending fairy tale that was mistaken as a horror story and spread her wings to breathe death upon all who sort to strip from her the scales that had bought her glory and wrought death and destruction early on roaring I love to wake in the morning to the smell of chicken cacciatore!
But the days turned to weeks turned to months turned to forever when they just went on and on and the people she once terrorized died and turned to dust (if they escaped her justice) and she never aged one day over time. She sat back and snorted as her rage curled like smoke from a dying fire and contemplated that all her rage had dissipated and she had lost all her spark with her diminishing ire…
So she retreated to her lair deep in the Carpathians to contemplate her too long fate and only ever emerged to hunt (yes, she still ate) Her motto of Meat is fair game never changed, she was Dragon, her physiology stayed the same but she made sure it was a clean **** out of necessity, not borne of fear and went back to her cave to lick her tail while studying her navel and sniffing back the occasional tear
On a particularly cold and blustery night, a bard, who was following the latest in season ‘now’ knight lost his way and stumbled into her cave and gave both of them a fright. She recognized his poet heart and he recognized her, from the start and she agreed not to eat him if he carried her musing to the heart of the people… so began a mutual understanding of the words that would be impart
She understood that her words would be the water that slaked a raging fire and would show others that she was angry but they had nothing to fear from her in the least and when she spoke and accidently let loose the fire in her heart then she felt contrite but there was nothing she could do about her inner beast.
All she wanted was the world to know that she had something to say and it was important that they looked beyond what they saw with their own eyes and ignored her form and looked into her heart.
She ate the bard, he was a tasty treat. She realized she was able to speak to the world, without interference because she was otherwise human and could embrace that part.
PS:
She still occasionally terrifies small children and is partial to animals for a quick snack but she remembers to walk among the village with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye and knows that her words will give back :)
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 7:42 AM UTC
under this grey and alien suburban sky, as long as I resist
I am the hidden nail between mirror and wall
or that tin man in wonderland
or one of those masks scaring vultures in suit and tie
or a hunter,
though I do not know where and what to hunt
so absorbed I turn and stare to the abstract colors of these abandoned suburbs of the world
and in the darkness I rise
still
---------------------------
sotto questo cielo suburbano grigio e alieno, finché resisto
sono il chiodo nascosto tra lo specchio e il muro
o quell'uomo di latta nel paese delle meraviglie
o una di quelle maschere che spaventano avvoltoi in giacca e cravatta
o un cacciatore,
anche se non so dove né cosa cacciare
e così assorto mi rivolgo al colore astratto degli abbandonati sobborghi del mondo
e nell'oscurità mi alzo
ancora
..................
bajo este cielo suburbano gris y ajeno, mientras yo resista
soy el clavo escondido entre espejo y muro
o un hombre de estaño en el país de las maravillas
o una de esas máscaras asusta buitres en traje y corbata
o un cazador,
aunque no sé dónde ni qué cazar
asì absorto me vuelvo y miro los colores abstractos de los suburbios abandonados del mundo
y en la oscuridad me levanto
aún
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC
Pass the bread, pass the peas, pass the butter, if you please
Pass the food that we don't like, chicken cacciatore, umm, what a delight
Pass the grapes, red wine is best, baked macaroni pasta put to the test
Pass the napkins for our mess, and pass the blessings for our guests
Pass the salt and the pepper, parmesan cheese shaker, now that's clever!
Pass the jokes, and the coffee, Luisa's strawberry shortcake tarts are sweet and salty
Pass the convo, pass the events, stories of grandparents in their teens
Pass the much- needed laugh, to Uncle Joey who's always mad, maybe later he can pass it back
Pass the good times, and the bad,
Although some memories are sad
Pass the plates, all the dishes, maybe Aunt Ginny will do the dishes
Pass the times we ate so late; Pops took us out for a pizza date
Pass the drama, pass the cries, pass by all the goodbyes
Pass the hugs and the kisses, past loved ones we truly miss
Pass the contacts, emails and numbers, pass the Twitter, snapchats and Tik Tok for the younger ones
Past the time for us to leave, passing more kisses in disbelief
Pass the coatrack near the door, dinner with family is never a chore
Never more, we know that time will pass again, for us to be together in a family way
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 9:33 PM UTC