"duomo" poems - Hello Poetry

Dear Florence, I remember the day I first saw you. I swear that is the only time I ever believed in ‘love at first sight’. You were as calm as the meditating soul. Your passing wind soothed my beating heart. In that first ride to my new house, I knew. I knew you were going to be my home. I knew you would mend all of my aching slits, stitch after stitch. Each day you bestowed me with a new beautiful day to inspire me, to metamorphose me, even more poetically than the phoenix rising from its ashes. I knew, one day, I would say goodbye. Chasing your dreams can sometimes be a painful journey. I knew leaving you would shatter my soul into little pieces, strewed all around your streets and alleys and piazzas and bridges. But dear Florence, you deserve so much more than my little-scattered pieces. As I say goodbye, pondering over the Santa Trinita bridge, I become forever yours. The joys you have given me, the memories of which will wander along through all my journeys. My sorrows, the memories of the flowing Arno river will always wash away. So, as I leave this place, I request you to take care of me. For ‘the me as I know it’ has become ‘the me as I knew it’. I am leaving behind this version of me for it is only in your shadows did she glow bright. Let your pink skies continue to set away all my anxieties. Let your rising blues continue to give me hope. Let the shining gold, always guide my heart home, just like the Duomo always guides us in its warm embrace. Let your ringing bells, help me rise every time I stumble. Let your art, keep my imagination flowing and let your symmetry create order in my life. Let your changing skies give me strength and inspire me to never stop, come what may. Take care of me when I am gone. Just like you have over the past year. Forever yours, The girl who never really left.

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Oct 28, 2018

Oct 28, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC

Siddhali

DEAR FLORENCE, TAKE CARE OF ME WHEN I AM GONE

Dear Florence, I remember the day I first saw you. I swear that is the only time I ever believed in ‘love at first sight’. You were as calm as the meditating soul. Your passing wind soothed my beating heart. In that first ride to my new house, I knew. I knew you were going to be my home. I knew you would mend all of my aching slits, stitch after stitch. Each day you bestowed me with a new beautiful day to inspire me, to metamorphose me, even more poetically than the phoenix rising from its ashes. I knew, one day, I would say goodbye. Chasing your dreams can sometimes be a painful journey. I knew leaving you would shatter my soul into little pieces, strewed all around your streets and alleys and piazzas and bridges. But dear Florence, you deserve so much more than my little-scattered pieces. As I say goodbye, pondering over the Santa Trinita bridge, I become forever yours. The joys you have given me, the memories of which will wander along through all my journeys. My sorrows, the memories of the flowing Arno river will always wash away. So, as I leave this place, I request you to take care of me. For ‘the me as I know it’ has become ‘the me as I knew it’. I am leaving behind this version of me for it is only in your shadows did she glow bright. Let your pink skies continue to set away all my anxieties. Let your rising blues continue to give me hope. Let the shining gold, always guide my heart home, just like the Duomo always guides us in its warm embrace. Let your ringing bells, help me rise every time I stumble. Let your art, keep my imagination flowing and let your symmetry create order in my life. Let your changing skies give me strength and inspire me to never stop, come what may. Take care of me when I am gone. Just like you have over the past year. Forever yours, The girl who never really left.

9

I was never the bad one. Not until now. Yet here I am with ice coated fire in my eyes, the gaze that I have seen so many times in the men who have hurt me, a monster of their creation. It feels like the good in me has receded into the castle I was forced to build around my heart and is starving out the battalions of intent. I need to cleanse myself of this abomination, a mental labyrinth meant to keep myself from success, my own worse enemy - me. There was a girl I liked once, when she was living in Italy. Her hair was white-gold in the sun and her blue-yellow eyes were always open, though often exhaustion fought to close them. Even when she cried she was beautiful, because she did not hide her sadness, or her anger, and the blue and yellow became cerulean pools to swim in. Her happiness made strangers smile, she stood upright despite her height of 5"11, and she woke up every morning with the knowledge that everything was exactly how it was supposed to be. This girl, this donna, had that chemical spark in her stare, fed by the history of several centuries, and always, always, her intentions were true. She spoke to strangers, slaughtering their language but they did not mind because she was trying, forever trying to bring joy into her heart. That kind of determination becomes a cloak of silver lace that brings others closer to you, all seeking the refuge of contentment, until everyone is wearing the same spider web of felicè and little iridescent strings form a community of pulsing satisfaction. I wish I was still her, and sometimes I am, but mostly I believe she is waiting on the rosy marble steps of the duomo while I battle my invisible monsters. I do not think I will see her I again until I knock down that castle, surrendering my slender body and my past and those tremors in the night. I hope she is still there, her cheeks matching the cathedral's glow underneath the pink clouds of dawn, to embrace me when I fall to my knees, begging her to share the cloak we wove together.

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Jul 20, 2013

Jul 20, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC

darbi-howe

I Beg of Me

I was never the bad one. Not until now. Yet here I am with ice coated fire in my eyes, the gaze that I have seen so many times in the men who have hurt me, a monster of their creation. It feels like the good in me has receded into the castle I was forced to build around my heart and is starving out the battalions of intent. I need to cleanse myself of this abomination, a mental labyrinth meant to keep myself from success, my own worse enemy - me. There was a girl I liked once, when she was living in Italy. Her hair was white-gold in the sun and her blue-yellow eyes were always open, though often exhaustion fought to close them. Even when she cried she was beautiful, because she did not hide her sadness, or her anger, and the blue and yellow became cerulean pools to swim in. Her happiness made strangers smile, she stood upright despite her height of 5"11, and she woke up every morning with the knowledge that everything was exactly how it was supposed to be. This girl, this donna, had that chemical spark in her stare, fed by the history of several centuries, and always, always, her intentions were true. She spoke to strangers, slaughtering their language but they did not mind because she was trying, forever trying to bring joy into her heart. That kind of determination becomes a cloak of silver lace that brings others closer to you, all seeking the refuge of contentment, until everyone is wearing the same spider web of felicè and little iridescent strings form a community of pulsing satisfaction. I wish I was still her, and sometimes I am, but mostly I believe she is waiting on the rosy marble steps of the duomo while I battle my invisible monsters. I do not think I will see her I again until I knock down that castle, surrendering my slender body and my past and those tremors in the night. I hope she is still there, her cheeks matching the cathedral's glow underneath the pink clouds of dawn, to embrace me when I fall to my knees, begging her to share the cloak we wove together.

3

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.

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Jan 5, 2017

Jan 5, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC

robert-d-levy

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.

4

Strong Powerful Delicate Ever evolving Creative and artistic So Soulful Stayed by the Duomo David and The Medici Easy to love Forever in my heart She is Italy for me Luckily have met her sister cities Until we meet again Ciao, Bella. Dolce Vita and Domani Always You gave me the gift of friends for life Milioni di grazie C@rainbowchaser2021

0

Jul 30, 2021

Jul 30, 2021 at 2:25 PM UTC

Maddypb

Firenze (Florence)

Strong Powerful Delicate Ever evolving Creative and artistic So Soulful Stayed by the Duomo David and The Medici Easy to love Forever in my heart She is Italy for me Luckily have met her sister cities Until we meet again Ciao, Bella. Dolce Vita and Domani Always You gave me the gift of friends for life Milioni di grazie C@rainbowchaser2021

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