"pio" poems
arson farson
larson? pio
leo trio el feo
angle fangle
his mite
is frite
scrap flap
trap slap hlap,
harun al rash
enter trash, mash
grate great
***** sheikh
eel feel meal really real
aeal steel molecular
trust bust, shrekular
even bush
shrugs off
the north tower.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
he wasn’t so much a peddler
(as many had quietly assumed)
more of a rural shuffler
or social inchworm
than a mover and a shaker
but boy
could he dish out those jabs
and ad lib on a whim
and draw sweet melodies
from that broken 6 string
all night long
carving out reflections
oh, those deep intuitive divinations!
steadily preaching
on the breathtaking joys
and fruits
of the vibrant land
*grow your own
seeds to be sown
clean and green
a nourishing machine!*
silver linings (straight from truth room)
clearly seen
from those uncompromised
garden views
casting his baited lines
from softly pebbled shores
(his nanna, and poppa
were there, years before)
giving grace…
and basking deeply
in the bounty of the fenua
his love of life was insatiable
moving from town to town
to nourish his soul
digging way beyond the deep
for that shrouded purpose
that soulful existence
that many spend a lifetime
looking to find
three boats settle
in the quiet harbor
a net shed basking in the sand
peaceful and serene
(with a hint of emerald green)
Sunset red
with crawfish (and lemongrass)
to keep us
bountifully fed
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 4:29 PM UTC
- Donde, o vecchina, queste violette
serene come un lontanar di monti
nel puro occaso? Poi che il gelo ha strette
tutte le fonti;
il gelo brucia dalle stelle, o nonna,
ogni foglia, ogni radica, ogni zolla. -
- Tiepida, sappi, lungo la Corsonna
geme una polla.
Là noi sciacquiamo il candido bucato
nell'onda calda in mezzo a nevi e brine;
e il poggio è pieno di viole, e il prato
di pratelline. -
Ah!... ma, poeta, non ancor nel pio
tuo cuore è l'onda che discioglie il gelo?
Non è la polla, calda nell'oblio
freddo del cielo?
Ché sempre, se ti agghiaccia la sventura,
se l'odio altrui ti spoglia e ti desola,
spunta, al tepor dell'anima tua pura,
qualche viola.
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