"grigio" poems
through the streets and column cracks
culture weaves and summer smacks
sacred figures, holy shrine
monastery in grand design
cathedrals, convents, heaven’s stars
god of neptune, god of mars
doge’s palace, alley ways
gondolier on full display
winged lions on pastel breeze
cicada singing from the trees
pillar walk of saint mark's square
basilica in all its flare
crosses shade the carousel
a bridge of sigh that leads to hell
golden stairs on placid ridge
arches of rialto bridge
torcello! murano! grigio!
the countess rides the river poe!
sins of seven, fiery hides
poplars bank the levee side
black plague, attila the ***
eden formed before the sun
paradise above the marsh
high alter, gothic arch
middle age, religious wars
celestial fountains, marble floors
sculpted peacock, catholic faith
all is true the great god saith
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 9:24 AM UTC
under this suburban sky
red stain on the dull gray, when you move away to your elsewhere
you revive
as a fish returning to the water after a short yet intense pain
for you I'm the bait
and the hook
and the fisherman too,
not in that order
in the order you decide
since you decide
you are elusive, you always look away and tighten your eyes
your words are lashes
I feel weak in your presence,
at the same time your fragility confuses me and it moves me
as a boat adrift in a lonely sea
...................
sotto questo cielo suburbano
macchia rossa su grigio opaco, quando ti muovi nel tuo altrove,
tu rivivi
come un pesce che ritorna in acqua dopo un'agonia breve ma intensa
per te io sono esca
amo ed anche pescatore,
ma non in quell'ordine
nell'ordine in cui decidi
e tu decidi
sei inafferrabile, distogli sempre lo sguardo e stringi gli occhi
le tue parole sono staffilate
mi sento debole in tua presenza,
allo tempo stesso la tua fragilità mi confonde e mi commuove
come una barca alla deriva in un solitario mare
..................
bajo este cielo suburbano
mancha roja en gris opaco, cuando te alejas a tu otro lugar,
tu revives
como un pez que regresa al agua después de un dolor breve pero intenso
yo soy cebo para ti
y gancho
y también pescador
pero no en ese orden
en el orden en que tu decidas
y tu decides
eres evasiva, siempre mira hacia otro lado y cierras los ojos
tus palabras son latigazos
me siento débil en tu presencia,
al mismo tiempo, tu fragilidad me confunde y me conmueve
como un barco a la deriva en un solitario mar
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
Rekindling of spirit
(folding in, billowing out)
with which we end the
day,
I dare you to
leave me.
The sun begs you to stay--
Give him the week off!
He needs a dozen
drinks!
Whiskey, gin, Pinot Grigio,
the whole lot!
He deserves a
feast!
And so the London Fog
stayed.
Coat and tea in hand,
thrown onto the mesh ground
despite,
tea arriving on cue--
Shallowed issues gone
askew,
Heart-screams louder
than the heart-worms
awash across the sidewalk
Day
dark like
Night
The
London Fog
Holds me tight
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
From a tiny seed,
Cultivated on the vine.
You fed hedonistic need,
Turning grapes into wine.
Sun-ripened botanicals,
Coated with white snow,
Reactive chemicals,
Delicious moscato.
Metabolic complexity,
Antioxidant neveau,
Oxygenic activity,
Bubbly pinot grigio.
Crisp and refreshing,
Cheeks become sanguine.
Acidic and effervescing,
Behold, fruit into wine
1/17/2016
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
High up on a hill
Like a little castle
Windows like the sun
T.J. Eckleburg’s eyes
Watching down below like the representative eyes of God
I can’t write poetry
This is a failure
Whatever
I wonder if the people in that building knew how they’d die
I wonder if we all know how we’ll die but we just can’t remember until we’re there
I hope my death is like a déjà vu
I hope I see this picture when I die
And the sky will be the same colour
And the ground will be cold and rocky
Somewhere in my line of sight there’ll be a building
With windows like the eyes of God
And I promise not to go into the light
But I can’t say it’ll offer the same courtesy
Maybe the people inside will be staring at screens or marking little boxes in the shape of my eyes with little x’s
They could be talking
Maybe, laughing
Morbidly joking, “oops there goes another one”
While they sip pinot grigio and pretend to be scientists
With their degrees bought in the black market
Agents of God that even He, Himself decided to write off
High up in the sky, watching life unfold like a bad reality TV show
God must hate reality TV
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
I remember vividly,
Thanksgiving, 1999.
I asked my mother
for a sip of her wine
(Pinot Grigio).
She hesitated, then laughed,
and let me press my small lips
against the rim
of the long stem glass.
The cool liquid
stung the back
of my throat
as it went down,
and I furrowed my brows
in disgust.
"Why would anyone drink this?"
Adult laughter erupted
around the table.
I didn't smile.
I wondered what they knew
That I did not.
Flash forward.
Present day wino
with a strong preference
for red
but a known policy
of indifference.
I enjoy it now.
But every once in a while,
I take a sip
that stings the back
of my throat.
And as I furrow my brows
in disgust,
I remember
That I still don't know
anything.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
under this gray suburban sky
being like a white pencil
who wants to write on a white sheet
and insisting
between beginning and end, on this single page of life
white pencil on a white sheet
it is difficult although that's how you draw a little line of freedom
that maybe nobody sees
but that your heart knows
-----------------------------
sotto questo grigio cielo di periferia
essere come una matita di color bianco
che vuole scrivere su un foglio bianco
e insistere
tra inizio e fine, su quest'unica pagina di vita
essere
matita di color bianco sul foglio bianco
è difficile eppure è così che si disegna un piccolo tratto di libertà
che forse nessuno vede
ma che il tuo cuore sa
bajo este cielo gris suburbano
ser como un lápiz de color blanco
que quiere escribir en una hoja blanca
e insistir
entre principio y fin, en esta única página de la vida.
lápiz de color blanco sobre hoja blanca
.es difícil pero así es como se dibuja una pequeña línea de libertad
que tal vez nadie ve
pero que tu corazón sabe
...................
sous ce ciel gris de banlieue
être comme un crayon blanc
qui veut écrire sur une feuille blanche
et insister
entre début et fin, dans cette unique page de la vie
crayon blanc sur une feuille blanche
c'est dur mais c'est comme ça qu'on trace une petite ligne de liberté
que peut-être personne ne voit
mais que ton coeur sait
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
i'm drinking
out of
the bottle
on a tuesday
and i have
to ****
but i'm
glued to
this chair
and the keys
are glued
to my fingertips.
the room smells
like cheep wine
and fresh
duvets
i can't seem
to leave
but i always
find a way to
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
She thinks he hung the moon.
A princess with her shining knight
In love, she fell, with him so soon.
As he proclaimed her beautiful, she swoons.
He stands in black; she walks in white
She thinks he hung the moon.
Pinot grigio in crystal poured by noon;
He reads to her in the yellow sunlight -
In love, she fell, with him so soon.
By night, he has her wrapped in a cocoon
Fire ablaze, she clenches his arms so tight
She thinks he hung the moon.
By morning, it’s their honeymoon
He kisses her hard with all his might
In love, she fell, with him so soon.
And then, by the end of June,
Inside her something stirs, a delight
She knows he hung the moon,
In love, she fell, strongly with him so soon.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
I've noticed
a tingling sensation
a slight blur of vision
and a simplistic way of
looking at things.
I've come to terms
with the fact that a glass of wine
a day keeps the monsters away
and a few more will send them
running.
So buy me a bottle
of your cheapest Pinot Grigio
then ask me about my problems
and I'll gladly spill them out for you.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
One has a population of 1,700,00
The other 2,000 locals,
swelling to 10,000
come the summer people,
the likes of him,
and noisy day trippers,
neither like
both born and bred on their respective islands
he locks his car always,
when and where ever
where ever is
mostly,
she leaves her keys
in the ignition
especially when
she leaves
the car running
on the street,
when doing quick errands
both are life long islanders,
that from time to time come
avisiting each other's home plate
at night,
he just locks the doors
but once,
no deadbolt,
a sign he is cool
on her countrified territory
her house door has a lock,
but no one knows the
key's exact whereabouts
going on,
as long as she can remember,
which is most of
her twenty years total
he lives in a tall apartment building
on a finger shape island that probably has
10,000 tourists arriving daily
she from an irregular shaped isle,
twenty five miles as the osprey flies,
and they do,
hers, nestled tween two forks,
and ferry's connecting you to the
"off island" till about 1:00am running,
after that, well, find a beach...
she, in a house,
outback,
behind the
country-package-store-deli
where the
most expensive gas on the island
for sale to touring folk
on the island's main gig highway
that store where
only the localest of locals
come in for
to buy their beer,
and the lost tourist,
looking for free directions
pays for them with expensive gasoline
he has one job
she has three
when not waitressing at Sweet Tomato,
she's planting flowers for the landscapers,
or working the counter at said store
she was prom queen
he did not go to his prom some 45 years ago
Two islands, two people,
one ancient, even borderline old,
one a student studying
modern farm management,
with the future openness of youth,
who won't take down college loans,
the other,
edging closer to his distinct extinction
but they talk for hours,
and he tips her more
than the cost of his meal
and the bottle of Pinot Grigio,
which loosened his tongue,
on a Friday eve
having traveled almost
four ungourmet hours,
to get to the island
he borrows from her,
in the summer time
and two days later,
one is encapsulating
the memory of the meet,
on an island of poetry
and he thinks he will go back
to conversation continue,
but that first meet
well, no repeat,
so he leaves
it's taste
here
for you to share
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
under this grey suburban sky
the hardest or the most beautiful thing of the day
it is always around the corner
but you must look forward to notice
yes sure even backwards around and low and smell the ground
but if you do not look forward that one thing
ugly or beautiful you will not see
and then you make a mistake and pay the consequences
you do not notice anything until it's too late
that's why we trust each other
since beside hunting,
we remind each other that we are prey too
we two, master and dog
cannot tell which of the two has learned or taught the most
fact is that we have grown
overall we feel safer
as we put one foot or paw in front of the other
and forward we go
after all
life is just a bite or a wagging tail away
...................
sotto questo grigio cielo suburbano
la cosa più difficile o più bella della giornata
è sempre dietro l'angolo
ma devi guardare avanti per poterla notare
sì, certo, anche all'indietro, intorno e in basso
e sentire l'odore del terreno
ma se non si guarda avanti,
quella cosa, brutto o bella che sia, non vedrai
e potresti commettere un errore e pagarne le conseguenze
se non noti nulla finché non è troppo tardi
ecco perché ci fidiamo l'un l'altro
poiché oltre a cacciare
ci ricordiamo l’un l’altro che siamo anche noi prede
noi due, padrone e cane
non posso dire quale dei due ha imparato o insegnato di più
il fatto è che siamo cresciuti
nel complesso ci sentiamo più sicuri quando mettiamo un piede o una zampa di fronte all'altra
e avanti andiamo
dopotutto
la vita è solo a un morso, o a una coda contenta, di distanza
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
Nel campo mezzo grigio e mezzo nero
resta un aratro senza buoi, che pare
dimenticato, tra il vapor leggero.
E cadenzato dalla gora viene
lo sciabordare delle lavandare
con tonfi spessi e lunghe cantilene:
Il vento soffia e nevica la frasca,
e tu non torni ancora al tuo paese!
Quando partisti, come son rimasta!
Come l'aratro in mezzo alla maggese.
912
*She would tuck me in.
He would roll me in the chilly sheets,
Soft kiss to the cheek.
Night so joyfully still.*
10 years pass.
Heaven took him.
May not be the same as when I was young,
Although I wish it was.
**5 am she comes home.
Not realizing mostly everyone,
is sound asleep.
Door slams closed,
As the fumes of alcohol travels through me.
A Pinot Grigio bottle or two,
The replacement.
Louder
and Louder she gets.
I choose not to speak,
Fearing her answer to any question I would have in thoughts.**
Vaguely remembering those nights I wasn't so alone.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
Dalla spoglia di serpe
alla pavida talpa
ogni grigio si gingilla sui duomi...
come una prora bionda
di stella in stella il sole s'accomiata
e s'acciglia sotto la pergola...
come una fronte stanca
è riapparsa la notte
nel cavo d'una mano...
840
confession: i wish i had never let you in.
i kissed your best friend after witnessing a drunken bar fight and thought about the way your fingers slid skillfully through my hair in your 2 am secret-infested bed. i thought about the planets of this magnificent world while you held every single breath i attempted to take back from your crystallized eyes. your hands sent vibrations through my body and amongst the jumbled whispered words drowned in true blue music, i wonder what we lost and what we learnt amongst the engulfing darkness. every time i step into your room it feels like an ocean of familiarity, tainted with a slow beating heart that's begging for a companion that would never be me. time started flying by when the universe saw how absolutely enchanted i was with the way you drove your car, the way you grasped my neck when my moans screamed that they wanted more, the way those boys shot daggers of envy when you were seen beside me.
now, i scramble to place together the beautiful words you spoke to me when we lost our carelessness between ***** sours and silly **** rips because they were the only ones i believed, the smoke danced in the sky like gypsies riding the dawn of morning while we bathed in golden sun rays. the clouds told stories of our passionate demise. i lay in my bed during the early morning hours before sunrise; before the last star in the pre-existing night sky vanishes and i think about you and what you could be doing. have you found something better? do you still dream about my silky, youthful skin? do her lips taste as ripe as mine?
these are questions i continue to entertain myself with. i let my mind flash back to when i had that pinot grigio in my hand and i watched your best friend perform upstage and i glanced over at you, your face without a word, nothing to be traced.
confession: it was too hard to love you.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 8:46 PM UTC
E l'acqua cade su la morta estate,
e l'acqua scroscia su le morte foglie;
e tutto è chiuso, e intorno le ventate
gettano l'acqua alle inverdite soglie;
e intorno i tuoni brontolano in aria;
se non qualcuno che rotola giù.
Apersi un poco la finestra: udii
rugliare in piena due torrenti e un fiume;
e mi parve d'udir due scoppiettìi
e di vedere un nereggiar di piume.
O rondinella spersa e solitaria,
per questo tempo come sei qui tu?
Oh! non è questo un temporale estivo
col giorno buio e con la rosea sera,
sera che par la sera dell'arrivo,
tenera e fresca come a primavera,
quando, trovati i vecchi nidi al tetto,
li salutava allegra la tribù.
Se n'è partita la tribù, da tanto!
Tanto, che forse pensano al ritorno,
tanto, che forse già provano il canto
che canteranno all'alba di quel giorno:
sognano l'alba di San Benedetto
nel lontano Baghirmi e nel Bornù.
E chiudo i vetri. Il freddo mi percuote,
l'acqua mi sferza, mi respinge il vento.
Non più gli scoppiettìi, ma le remote
voci dei fiumi, ma sgrondare io sento
sempre più l'acqua, rotolare il tuono,
il vento alzare ogni minuto più.
E fuori vedo due ombre, due voli,
due volastrucci nella sera mesta,
rimasti qui nel grigio autunno soli,
ch'aliano soli in mezzo alla tempesta:
rimasti addietro il giorno del frastuono,
delle grida d'amore e gioventù.
Son padre e madre. C'è sotto le gronde
un nido, in fila con quei nidi muti,
il lor nido che geme e che nasconde
sei rondinini non ancor pennuti.
Al primo nido già toccò sventura.
Fecero questo accanto a quel che fu.
Oh! tardi! Il nido ch'è due nidi al cuore,
ha fame in mezzo a tante cose morte;
e l'anno è morto, ed anche il giorno muore,
e il tuono muglia, e il vento urla più forte,
e l'acqua fruscia, ed è già notte oscura,
e quello ch'era non sarà mai più.
774
Come dine with me,
lets dine, lets dine today.
We'll get lost in each others eyes as the conversation fly's away.
Of course I'm yours,
I'd wage wars for us.
I've burn't the main course.
You take my breath away,
baby.
Lets get a takeaway.
You told me you needed a hero,
as I poured you a glass of Pinot Grigio.
I see through you to the bones,
your skeleton is everything to me.
You gave me the skeleton key, eventually.
I made copies so I will never lose you,
and I can always get back in,
even when you're not there.
You get the door and I'll get the plates.
Pour your honesty on top of me,
I can't get enough of your acquired taste.
Different each time,
indifferent to my trouble mind.
Together were one of the same kind.
My perfect 10.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
under this gray sky
the eyes burn for the dark rain that falls down
and you shout your caresses on my cheeks of fear
I listen to you with the experience of my twenty years
when twenty years were many
and intense and sweet
sweet
under this gray sky
darkness that you fear, dreams that are lost in space
in your throat suffocated smiles
opportunities torn in the wind
wind that doesn't come back
never written history books
flowers of little
or nothing
infinite
fragility
and yet
life
……………….
flores de poco
bajo este cielo gris
los ojos arden a través de lluvia oscura que cae
y tu gritas tus caricias en mis mejillas de miedo
yo te escucho con la experiencia de mis veinte años
cuando veinte años eran muchos
e intenso y dulces
dulces
bajo este cielo gris
oscuridad que temes, sueños que se pierden en vuelo
sonrisas sofocadas en la garganta
oportunidades que se rompen en el viento
viento que no vuelve
libros de historia nunca escritos
flores de poco o nada
fragilidad infinita
y sin embargo,
vida...…
……………..
fiori di poco
sotto questo grigio cielo
gli occhi bruciano per la buia pioggia che cade giù
e tu gridi le tue carezze sulle mie guance di timore
io ti ascolto con l'mpazienza dei miei vent'anni
di quando vent'anni erano tanti
e intensi e dolci
dolci
sotto questo grigio cielo
buio che temi, sogni che si perdono in volo
sorrisi soffocati in gola
opportunità che si disfano nel vento
vento che non torna
libri di storia mai scritti
fiori di poco o nulla
fragilità infinita
eppure
vita
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
She was transparent,
blunt and beautiful.
what she lacked in grace,
she made up for in good times.
I remember the face she would make
when she laughed at my stupid jokes.
her eyes would squint and her mouth
would shrink right before it widened
stretching from corner to corner
showing her lovely white teeth.
She wore a dark red shade of lipstick,
loved my writing, the poetry and songs.
I miss her pinot grigio kisses
and her nicotine scent.
She left me at Heathrow airport
and on her way she went.
She was going to be an actress
and I was going to be
whatever I was going to be.
She saw the best and the worst in men.
I wonder though, what she ever saw in me.
Feb 13, 2021
Feb 13, 2021 at 1:18 PM UTC
this river / gray and brown / will move
so says tradition / lets stay faithful
since we have not / something else to recommend /
Maria Panoutsou Libations
αυτό το ποτάμι / το γκρι, καφέ/ θα το περάσουμε
έτσι λέει η παράδοση/ ας μείνουμε πιστοί
αφού δεν έχουμε/ κάτι άλλο να προτείνουμε/
μ.π σπονδές
questo fiume / grigio marrone / si muoverà
così dice la tradizione / lasciare fedele
dal momento che non abbiamo a /
qualcos'altro da raccomandare /
or
questo fiume / grigio e marrone /
lo leggerà
così dice la tradizione /
let rimangono fedeli
Dal momento che non abbiamo /
qualcos'altro di proporre /
Libagioni Maria Pnoutsou
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC
The tomatoes hang eaten.
Some rodent, maybe.
The cayenne doesn't work,
just burns the air I breathe.
Knees swell.
The doctor?
I haven’t called.
This is the small life
we once smirked at.
Summer again.
No mercy.
Too much.
Too bright.
Lately, I forget:
the grigio in the freezer
the last message,
why I opened the drawer.
I drop things now.
Envelopes. Keys.
A glass once,
the sound too big
for the room.
My grip loosens
without permission.
You said,
That’s what old looks like.
But you didn’t get here.
We stay.
We wait.
For mail.
For quiet.
For a name to light the screen.
For the neighbor’s dog
to stop barking
at nothing.
Oceanside,
in shopfront glass,
I glimpse my portrait—
eyes angry, narrowed
against the glare,
shirt caught on wind.
And I ache,
to be so
briefly
here.
Jun 24, 2025
Jun 24, 2025 at 9:32 PM UTC
Three heads and a quarter,
barely even a meal for me.
How could one think it was good
for six pennies and tea?
*******
A horse's tail whiplash made
Barefoot Pinot Grigio spill.
Angry children steal
from the shop owner's unguarded till.
What?
Eating apples with a pig under a fig tree;
I wonder if they'll ever find me?
A sword drawn on a child
the story ends with six pennies and a quarter
to spend. How mild?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
I've found my happiness again. It's a bottle of Pinot Grigio in a bar that plays Billie holiday and Peggy Lee, where you can commandeer a seat at the bar that's not directly in front of a mirror.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC