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Lizzy Jul 2014
I've been told
time can heal anything
but it seems time won't let me forget
it can't put back together
all the glass I have shattered

with all my sharp edges
and my pointed parts
i tried to keep from cutting you too

time can't heal
it can't fix my enduring guilt
all these things I don't speak of
they're burried
playing with the debris
and I guess I'm just Sorry for saying Sorry
Sara Kellie May 2018
Leave my Nan out in the rain, it'll be right.
She's having veg later with some meat, on a bone but meat.
No gravy, she's too lazy. She will not thread it.

So what do you think? Shall we fold it the other way?
Do it tonight, it won't be today and not quite black but definitely not grey.

If it smells like cheese, just wear one and keep one eye open!
Then, we may even finish third.
Remember, listen for the sound.
It's crucial, like a twenty pence piece.

Dust! Always dust. Grams and ounces of the dustiest dust.
Never before six and never after six.
Just continuous with no bends, bubbles or any of that material you really like.

Because when he'd finished speaking (The Italian) I didn't understand a ******* word of it!

"Sorry, I don't speak Italian", shrugged my shoulders, did that thing you do with your bottom lip and ****** off.

THE END
(FINITO)
A poem describing the problems we encounter through language barriers.
The solutions we create to overcome them!
Especially the English
LuisFeliz Dec 2018
Every corner seems to be in love with him
Over little dreams, dans the Cruise,
Heartbeats over hearing in the summer rain
Laughing about dreams,
Honey dew.
Honeysuckle is my queen,
She's smiling upon him,
She's so violent and proud,
Chanting softly walking high,
Feeling hypes above the sky,
There are lovers, real on games,
Walking roses overnight.

I'm just happy on my way,
Sunshine brights for me again,
Sweet carnage,
Follow kisses,
Hit the rain,
I got nothing more to life for
Since I finally find my way,
Dark soft roses,
Dark spring,
Honey love over the hill,
Commonly hidden by fiends.

                                                    -Lui­s Feliz
Italian love - Luis Feliz
King Panda Apr 2016
I was born on this
back porch
I was born
with a lion in my
brain
I was born with
you, dear sister
300 years ago
in a little town
on the Italian
coast
we played
in the arms of
the Mediterranean
reaching to the light
we saw in each other
never clawing
sometimes crying
always found in the eyes
it was called
a miracle
it was called
unusual
it was thrown into
the fountain
like a rusted penny
dormant joy
buried in a wish
to find you again
and now
here we are
the breeze that died
300 years ago
warm
calm
and smelling of lilacs
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Coffee-soaked ladyfingers
Sweet amaretto
Mascarpone, eggs, sugar =
thick vanilla cream
Layer on fingers
Dust cocoa
Chill!
Nineth Epulaeryu, yay! ^-^
I absolutely love Tiramisu -  I usually use Amaretto for the base; the liqueur is a sweet and a tad bitter, with a hint of dark ***. It's mmmwwaaahhhhh!
A definite "pick me up" on a ****** day! ^-^
My sweet tooth is crazy lol
Lyn ***
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
Crispy gold cannoli shells
hand-made pastry tubes
milky, smooth ricotta cream
Filling made of dreams
Now grate chocolate
dust sugar
Crunch!
╰⊰✿⊱╮
Seventh Epulaeryu!
This Italian treat is TO DIE FOR!
***, it's basically a party in my mouth!
I kid you not when I say that the first time I tried this with a friend,
we nearly fainted. Our first food-gasm! ;)
The flavours are  MMMMMM-MMMMM-MMMMM!
Lyn ***
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Here comes the sun little darling's
We all get burned
 Is it your turn
     "U-Turn"
Oh! Where I thou
"Green light Diner"
It's telling us to Go
    *       *       *
The Earth beauty faces
I will be your direct sunlight
In plain sight to the daylight
her blossom tree
All I ask come for me
Her face could eat
The divine flower laced

French brie
Tie a yellow ribbon on me
We have so much to see
Let it be sun-face Moms
apple pies
The Sun  "Watchtower"
Someone knocks you off
Your "Bill" on the Ice Queen

The Goddess rodeo waitress
She got you roped in between
The cigarette 1940 case hostess
             "Rose"
I suppose the sunflowers every booth
her smile sets in place

The stain-glass window Notre Dame
Rock and roll hall of fame
The earth kids rainbow chalk
Sun-fun treetops like a beanstalk
Napoleon Elementary Watson
New Jersey Diner capital admission
The Peking duck *** luck

European beauty hunter's menu
Any luck this will be awhile sip "Starbucks"

1-Antipasti cute Shiba Uni
2-Consomme Chicken soup
3-Sun-face to the soul fruit loop
4-Chicken pepper Salsa
Sun-face lights up Visa
5-Hearts of Artichokes Mona Lisa
6-Soy ****** salmon
My sun worshiper man

Fish tacos hummus
St Thomas
Rome was not build
In one day
The windpipes and
the tablecloths Oh! yikes
Full of dream pipes

Sun tan stripes and zebras
Couscous salad big star dipper
Egyptian Gods camels back
Sun-face diner no time
for the sun-chip snack
Diners from 1920-1940
Sun-face air force dresses

Medieval times two swords
Holy lords Easter parades
" Ice-cream Spumoni"
Dinner in the sky
Robin red breast fly
Italian artwork Coliseum
Look up in the sky
It's a bird shaped
Paper plane bad romance
going insane

Waffle House  jukebox rock and roll
Hall of fame whats in a food name
Cowboy steaks American Flags
Cajun chicken legs fruits and figs
At the caboose Ladybird jet lag
Valentine Diner chairs
got footloose homemade goose

Purple rain Prince maple
pancakes
Bananas and strawberry fields
lake sun in shape of a snowflake
Forest Gump changes to
Presidential Trump
Vitamin C  honey bunches of Oats

Yummy floats of egg cream
Open table Sun-face dream
Eggs light she's not finished
over easy
Pristine of carrots with
artful daisies
Thanksgiving turkey

Rings of napkins holding
A time well-bred marriage
Well known landmarks of
Carats
Long ago time she saw the light
Daylight Knight like a scale to weight

Whispers of wine and grapes
Sun face courtesan love escape
Sun Faces trillion times mansion
Sun-faces never go out of fashion
Sun faces and dinner places the best in the world eat heartily Drive in and Diners all over the world have a medieval touch with the Vikings and melodies from the heart  of the surface  her smile will always be there everywhere she goes the Diners place her with Rose
Kent Aug 1
I sat
between the city and the sea
On a sunny summer’s day
When an Italian dream
a rocker queen
decided to grace me

It feels so unreal
to see such an angel exist
Her braided raven hair
and icy seductive stare
keeps me in wondrous bliss

With crystal shades
of green and blue
Her lovely eyes
gazed into
my passion
And found
the soundtrack of our lives
to be the same
Yet different
in the world to which it played
Nevermind the language spoken
Our lives connect
In hybrid moments

Welcome to L.A
A place where Angels belong
Though you cannot stay
A connection is lifelong
So let’s dance while we can
singing rock and roll songs
Creating memories
that will never be gone
The experience
of meeting you
An Italian Deam come true
Inspired by a real-life experience where a drop-dead gorgeous Italian rocker girl introduced herself and befriended me out of nowhere.
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Let the Dealer take to his Gambles spend
Such that his Boots would limit to arcade
Which two-fold bets cast odds on top descend
And his Service strikes without much delay
I meant the Italian you happened to wear
And strip for Happy Golgotha delight
You wanted Admirers in Cheerful bear
Then their Smiles came true for their ****** Sight
After all, Talk Show's a Norm-for-the-Woos
Which indeed supplements the Popular
Which you desired; And asked you turn loose
To be one of those Studs Spectacular.
Happy for you. Since your own Flesh at stake
As you are now Ripe; Your Best Rind you make.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Yenson Jul 16
they say they can do heads in
whatever that means only them knows
they say they can alter personalities
i say i have already altered your personalities
made y'all obsessives I'm jumping in your minds
y'all think you've got snowflakes like ya'll
swing from rope, male suicide is the largest killer in ya land
they can't handle pressure, no spine mommy's boys
my mate, my mate its all about ganging up,
alone, they disintegrate and panic, they are made weak
they talk of love yet they're plastic superficiality
will do anything to belong, can't abide themselves
cause it's all empty air and bravado
all semblance no substance, they use money to buy love
money gone love disappears cause they keep nothing real
they are incapable of truth, snipers, back-biters  inveterate gossips
pretenders and actors always scared of realities and the truth
cannot deal face to face because they know not how to relate
follow the crowd, do as others do, we are all equals
EQUALS,  my ****,
what makes you think I am like you, spineless inadequates
unequipped, un-prepared indulgent saps of nanny county
We love our moms, yes she cooks, clean, tidy and even ***** you
And these are the ones that wanna do heads in, alter personalities
NO we are not all the same
you are dross
I am quality
AS you were, park lifers, go sup another pint...
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
The circle closes over the dead woman's space.
Family and community heal, the scar tissue
between a young girl's *******. She had
shared conversations with my father about
the holes in their hearts. My heart, the
muscle, not the spirit, flutters when a
young girl bikes by or the heron flies.

By September flies are down, we can come
out of our canoes and risk the woods. Summer's tissue
is torn each night. Space above gives perspective
to the life one had. Jesus speaks your name?
And is Beatrix now traveling astronomy's corridors
at the speed of light, aware of herself, to the blessed heart?
Durante too is moving on, wayfaring with his virgil.

Much of the family gathered. My grandfather, Bart,
it was remembered sold his house to none other than Duke
Ellington and Lena Horne lived up the block. Andrew
played with her daughters, sons. Until every Italian
had moved east into Long Island, thinking themselves
better than blacks. I find each and all --
Hindus, Muslims -- hard-earned bone and prone to ache.

We are most happy the dead one's not us.
The chosen one, the unfortunate one, the
one whose name Jesus spoke, is gone
and is no longer one of us. She is the other,
as distant and separate from the family
as a black man or Hindu's sister. Missed less
than last night's sleep or meat and grateful

for such peace. I will be too if it won't
come too soon or too often. My observation is
54 or 84 you always seem to want more
what was accomplished or never finished isn't
enough. Greedy, overweight and blameworthy
is how I've felt about every wasted day.
Summer's tissue torn by the first frost night.

Judging by her feet, Judith will be a big
woman, great granddaughter of Bartholomew,
who sold his redlined house to Duke. See how she
stands near her mother, Jeanette, who
resembles so fiercely my grandmother, Concetta.
The circle closes over the dead woman's space.
Summer's tissue is torn, the family is lace.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Yenson Aug 26
In the late night
the lady rose and asked
where is that wild buck new to the stable
Not there anymore the night air in waiting replied
then don't just stand there the lady said
Go fetch me me my faithful Italian stallion quick
for I must ride tonight and he is mine

Look at me can you not see
I have toiled in the greens  and tilled gardens
have fetched woods for seven sisters
and walked in hissy fit down the lane
my lips are sore and my fingers ache a times
so now go fetch me my Italian stallion and let me ride
he's mine and I can do as I please

That buck in hue of regal coal is wild and strong
an Arab king mare, big and mean, if ever there;s one
with flanks like rocks and a back straight and hard
oh! to ride him over the hills in wanton abandon delight
galloping up and down with my thighs gripping that smooth skin
Alas I fear I may do damage to my fair and tender laps
go fetch me my Italian stallion, my trained and gentle mare

Yes, he will do as told and he's always there
tells me only what I want to hear and never bite or nip
his mane I like and his neigh makes me laugh like a drain
he's not an Arabian mare and enjoys backing in and backing up
grease up the flanks and tell that Italian mare to come give it to me
that wild buck I fear will be too wild, that unbroken Arab Charger
cost too much and will take so much space I fear I may tear and die......
L B Aug 2016
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
   I was small then
   She had a parakeet that landed on my head
   and a bathtub too
   with water so deep!
   and legs and claws!
   **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!

She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
   where bugs hung-out in the haze
   of teenage August
   I played in the tall weeds
   with a shoeless Italian boy
   who ate tomatoes like apples
   and cucumbers right off the vine!
   He was ***** free and foreign!
   We played— reckless, abandoned
   behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn   
   and through the endless fields
   I didn’t know....
   His name was Tony
   I ate pizza with him—the first time

At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
   but I could watch night flowers
   bloom on wallpaper
   She came in to say good night
   slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
   and I peeped her *******!
   like Tony’s cucumbers!
   I had never seen my mother’s wonders....

Night spread its wings from the old fan—
   a bird of tireless exhaustion
   whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
   tireless exhaustion
   tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
   stretched out on the whine
   of the overland trucks
   Route Five through the night of an open window

In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
   crickets    crickets    crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
   a summer child
   not yet ready for the fall of answers

Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
   I followed her everywhere I could
   I was small then--    
   do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
   of being sixteen
   and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”
   while she tied her sneakers
   against the mattress by my head

I followed Maureen (in my mind)
   tanned and bandanned
   to work in the fields of shade tobacco
   with all those Puerto Rican boys!
   She knew where she was going!

I was small then
...do anything for a stick of  gum

“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
   ...through the goldenrod of roadside
   through the smell of oil that damped the dust    
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
   and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
   the way the screen door slammed
   on her bright behind
   the way her lips taunted and took
   the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen

I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!

Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”

Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)

…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, beboppin’

“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”
Peggy Lee's Fever:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4hXyALR9vI
I was seven years old and did I ever get this!
Peggy Lee's stripped down performance is the epitome of ***.

Windsor Locks is in Connecticut.
If wishes could be measure,
Clem would have reign in wealth,
Before he had a date with death.
Poverty battled with him with all pleasure.
In the tribulation, all his gray eyes saw was a
jubilating future.

In my clan, the death are kings,
Their testimony barely bear guilts,
Tales of that of dove and angelic.
In these imperfect world, they are made perfect and heroic.

That of clem wasn't different,
No hair suspected him of having a great for a kin,
Who in death embraced him to a golden casket, in Italian suit, shoes and a cow killed.
His burial got what he never begged for in hundred fold
Hmm! A late beggar decorated more than a groom to a royal fold.

As all gathered round his six feet for a final bye,
The in prophesied happened, Clem breath resurrected and all flee,
Even the priest, men, women and their kids.
Clem awoke into a dream,
Agitating against mankind and why array of
fortune should perish with a beggar like him,
While there are countless beings escaping death each dawn in perpetual poverty.
Griefs stricken for his old him,
He rose, undertook his golden casket, sold it and became a king.
Masuda Khan Juti Apr 2017
She took two photos of these elephant paper weights. He observed. He said something about how finely detailed they were. They smiled. He had grey eyes. “Where you from?”
“What brings you here?”
“Gap year?”
So many question. Two souls hungry to know more about the other.
“The south is really nice”
“Yeah listening closely, you do have a slight Italian accent! ”
They talked.
She pointed back at the elephants. “They’re for instagram.” She really hoped he was on Instagram.
“You on Instagram?”
He curled his lips. Regret it seemed.
“Well I’m on Facebook. But I also write letters.”
She said something like she thought that was cool or that that was awesome.  It wasn’t clear for her either. All she  was thinking sadly was that she couldn’t give him her address! They’d just met!
Her cousin interrupted. They were going to get icecream. She hastily said bye. It all happened so quick. She blurted out that she wished he had a great life ahead. He nodded. She wrinkled her nose. She left. He stood there. And like the movies she looked back. But as real life is not in slow motion, the last smile she gave was short and it didn’t give her time to change her mind. And maybe stay back. Not have icecream.

That she is I.

That he is that boy

I met at the shop

where they sell...

elephant paper weights.
I'LL NEVER EVER FORGIVE MYSELF FOR NOT HAVING GIVEN HIM MY ADDRESS
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2018
based on the essay below received from Liz Balise**

all poems and their accompaniment sauces begin with onions
start by fouling the air, bringing forth only unrestricted tearings
then...

the slow cooking elicits the sugars hid within,
the unpleasant odor, refined into something
minted new sweet and savory.

so too, the poem must simmer, slow cooked,
harmonizing the caramelizing,
even if some ingredients
claim the first born birthright of the eldest first essential,
despite the collective harmonizing.

the ripened color of the blood red tomatoes,
the ruddy cheery sanguinity of
certain words in each poem,
are the coloration of its entirety -
the ones your never forgive for never letting you forget them!

what matters not but how, the daring to substitute the new how,
how you chef see it and color it with the crazy way how
you beckon us over one by one to the big *** for a tasting
accepting critiques and suggestions, a thousand pinches
of your salty sweet essences.

and the recipe is dog stained and pointy corner ear-edged,
cause you cannot exactly write it down, and you bend the corner
for every substitution and variation,
cause every poem
made to taste the how of us,
each one a subtle different.

everyone understands metaphor,
even the society of the reticent ones in the back row,
just say the “trapdoor of depression” and they’ll nod knowingly,
so say to them a poem is a metaphor for you,
and spaghetti sauce is how you see, recreate in words,
how you need to add an ingredient of yourself
to this one,
a word, a phrase, becomes you in it, in you,
you in it are both poet and poem
and a simmering new and different
————————————————————————-


A Well Written Essay— The Spaghetti Sauce Method
As a teacher and a learner, I have always wanted to see the "nuts and bolts" of everything. Yes, it slows the process down, but the learning is more complete, and a person becomes capable of making endless connections of understanding, branching to other  creative possibilities. Writing like dancing, and all that is worth learning, deserves all of the pieces and steps of the process.
I remember telling my students every year that grammar could indeed be a dry bone, but necessary in the process of good communication. Told them that I would teach writing by the "spaghetti sauce method" (Visualize their perplexed faces here.). "A well-written essay should be like a really good sauce-- smooth, fine textured, with a complete harmony of meat, sweet, tomato, and seasonings-- not one overpowering the others, but all in marvelous union of great flavor and aroma."
I continued, giving the example of my mother's
(God rest 'er) Irish spaghetti sauce" as a contrast. "Mama would throw in onions, peppers (if she had ‘em), hamburger, salt and pepper, fry it all in corn oil, and mix with two cans of plain tomato sauce. This was all okay with me," I went on,“ till I experienced the epiphany of garlic, basil, oregano, pork neck bones and a cup of wine; in the kitchen of an Italian neighbor, who walked me through the process and ingredients of real Italian sauce that was simmered for hours."
I continued to nudge them with the comparison: "Excellent writing is more than talent and passion, otherwise a tirade of curses, knotted ideas, and copied paragraphs of someone else would always do.” "No," I went on, "It is clear thought, captured, slow-cooked in the labor of mind and understanding— and in good time, expressed, in a way that others can comprehend -- with great attention to the cardinal rule: It is not as much WHAT you say-- but HOW you say it."
Through the year I focused on one or two aspects of better writing at a time for each paper. It was an uphill battle, often teaching against the mediocrity of the expectations in the PA State Standards of Assessment. It would add ten hours to my work week to grade and comment on a set of a 115 papers.
Chase Parrish Mar 23
Is poetry a way to cope with pain?
My chest throbs dully in low agony.
You see, heartache is a physical thing.
It hurts as if it's any wound to me.
I'm not afraid to state my malady,
Depression is what resides in my brain.

And it's the way it manifests, I hate
In doubting in myself, and what I'm worth
In old memories, losses, things of weight
Frustrations pop and boil as on a hearth
Sometimes I wish for return to the earth,
But I've been down that road, in bitter pace.

       I write, not for the pain, which wont relieve.
       However, when it's shared, it will indeed.
Ok I have something... different to share
The Unnamed Sonnet form is a form I created out of love for the rhyme-scheme of the Italian Sonnet, and for Shakespeare's use of the volta when used in the last couplet. I feel like it's a good deviation from the traditional kinds of sonnets because it fills a needed role. In the Unnamed Sonnet form you have the ability to talk about one idea, in two different ways, and then tie them together at the volta, which because of this will usually end up at the couplet. It is harder to do this in a Shakespearean Sonnet due the theme being carried by three quatrains. Similarly in the Italian Sonnet, the Octave usually controls the theme, then the sestet draws to the conclusion. I feel like two sestets followed by a couplet is a strong way to convey one point in two ways. Or to convey two points, separately, while still drawing a strong conclusion. I will eventually get around to naming it, the name is tied into the first one of it's kind, of which I had to strip it's name.
Would love this critiqued
Jamie Riley May 2018
Why didn’t you lose when it was on the news
And hundreds of thousands of people accused  
you of scandal and incompetence?
You never revealed your conscience
or any remorse for your play boy antics
so far removed from your pedantic
stereotype as a political leader
more like a ****** wheeler dealer
pervy old ***** geezer
over cologned and greasy heavy breather,
machinating falsifier
misogynistic *******,
machiavellian Italian stallion;
Faccia brutta o sfacime no?

You prized a Ruby above the rest.
Bunga bunga what a pest
she leaked your private fetish fest,
poor Silvio you did your best
to hide the bribes, the bets,
the ******, the drugs, the threats.
But you never really did care
what was right and what was fair.
You got all the attention, all the fame
and made the liberals look like philistines
by shrugging allegations that would define
and force any other politician to resign.
You waited until Italy was ****** dry;
for her wallet to exhale a defeated sigh
when you decided to resign.
How could the euro ever survive
with you wanting to prioritise
Your ******* *** drive?
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