"puccini" poems
After ***
Abela
likes to lie
in the bed
listening
to duets
from that guy
Puccini
-I get us
some coffee
from the small
kitchenette-
isn't it so
romantic?
She asks me
from the bed
sure it is
but what are
they singing
about it's
foreign words
I reply
carrying mugs
to the bed
where she lies
**** naked
invitingly
words are words
it's the sounds
that move me
she tells me
I put mugs
on both sides
of the bed
on small side
cabinets
I climb back
into bed
Puccini's
getting her
in the mood
she eyes me
runs fingers
down my thigh
kisses me
on the lips
on the chin
on the cheek
my pecker
stirs himself
from slumber
not knowing
what hour
day or week.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC
~I remember...
~For my two sisters
Future lovers
Are not knocking on my doors,
No line ups
Around the corner
Of my house;
The ladder to my window
Lies injured
On yellow
Lawn
Not nurtured,
Down bellow.
On the Queen Anne arm chair
Ashes of my
Fabulous years,
Wireless affairs,
No strings
Unattached
To my violin.
Sketches in the ****
Of lovers past
Are shivering,
Longing for my tapestries,
Trying, in vain, to hide
Under sad sepia.
Portraits, I promised
To paint
To Dorian Gray.
May still age
Given just a little
More time.
On the stage
I, Manon Lescaut, die,
Only sixteen -
Poor Knight De Grieux
Just another year,
please,
That I have not for sale
Anymore.
Pastels and aquarelles
Turned monochrome;
Chronos
Doesn't stop here
For a single moment -
Walks all over.
In the middle of my chaos
23/7
(What's an hour glass
Or more?),
Sleeps
Master Behemoth.
His fur coat
Once luxurious black
Has specks of grey,
One white whisker;
So are three of my hair.
Wise
Sybilla?
I don't think so.
It's not what
It used to be, my Master
Let's go out
To the open
Let's breathe,
Let's see new cats.
On the chopping block,
Let's lose our heads
Let's get lost.
Let's elope together
The weather
Should be
Just rainy-fine
For the Requiem,
For the funeral.
Tree Sisters gone
To the Cherry Orchard,
Uncle Vanya, again,
Left alone on the estate.
Seagull, before rain
Flies over my head
For the last time.
Author Notes
Two of my sisters are gone already.
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's plays:
Three Sisters
Cherry Orchard
Uncle Vanya
Seagull
...To name just a few. Manon Lescaut by Abbe Prevost, two operas as well, one by Puccini, one by Esprit Auber. "A woman like Manon can have more than one lover." The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:07 PM UTC
I enjoy a good band with its
Drums and fine guitars,
A keyboard and a couple of singers
At concerts, clubs, and bars.
A mellow band with harmonizing
Voices is a treat—
Not a loud rambunctious one
That blasts me out of my seat.
An exciting band can really send me—
That I will concede.
But an acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
Take me to a symphony;
That can be exciting.
Beethoven, Brahms, and Mozart
All can be inviting.
Chamber music with a string quartet
Can often do the trick;
A grand concerto that gives me goose bumps
Has a definite kick.
Big band, pop, or classical
Music are fine indeed;
But an acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
Opera can be scintillating
If you like the score.
A giant chorus or a plaintive aria
Makes your spirits soar.
Mozart, Wagner, Puccini, Verdi
Massenet and the rest
Make me realize that I am
Listening to the best.
But as much as I like opera
When it's up to speed,
An acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
I like music from all around
The world as a rule.
Both modern and traditional
Sounds to me are cool.
German, Japanese, Norwegian,
Mexican, and Chinese
Music makes me feel good;
It puts my mind at ease.
But as much as I like all music,
One thing's guaranteed:
An acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
- by Bob B
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
"Who am I? I'm a poet."
from “La Bohème” by Giacomo Puccini libretto
~~~
"My business? Writing.
How do I live? I live.
In my happy poverty
I squander like a prince,
my poems and songs of love.
In hopes and dreams
and castles-in-the-air,
I'm a millionaire in spirit"
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 4:58 AM UTC
She said who am I and
what am I doing here?
They all said that
he said all of them
but she was different
she had a darker
tone of voice
and her eyes haunt me
to this day
and she was often heard
at the opposite end
of the ward
singing Puccini arias
and some of the others complained
she'll drive us mad
drive us over the edge
so she sang Mozart instead
and walked about stark naked
and some of the guys
liked that but the nurses
soon dressed her again
after all one can't have
that kind of thing
he said can we?
She cornered him once
and said Bach gets jealous
if I don't sing his arias
but he can go **** himself
I like Puccini and Mozart
and now and then she'd concede
and off she'd go
with some Bach thing
loud and clear
as a bell in a valley
and she slept
in the women's dormitory
and hated it when the big woman
tried to climb into her bed for ***
she hated that
like a **** hippo she said
hippo in bed with me
do you know what
she does on Sundays?
He said she goes
to the hospital chapel
and sings the Mass in Latin
and ****** off the C of E clergy guy
and he complains
but she just sings louder
and that Monday last
she punched that fat dame
in the nose because
she touched her *** at breakfast
and broke her nose
and naked again
no clothes.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
Pulling long strands of your lemon grass hair from my clothes,
I consider, as I watch them fall to the ground one by one,
Should I let you go as easily?
Coffee stains, you see my Darling, are not so easy to remove.
And amber stones infect my heart with rapidity.
I stole an esoteric kiss from red, enraptured, trembling lips,
While eyes deep and wide enough to drown in shot me through the chest,
And fingertips
Traced my limbs
Through candle-lit smoke rings.
And achingly beautiful birthmarks, scars and loveable idiosyncrasies
Swirl around my mind, awash with whisky,
And Puccini,
And suicidal Butterflies.
A dangerous, heady, Olive-green elixir.
An ethereal melee perpetuating unrest,
And thoughts of when I'll be seeing you next...
And other nervous questions,
Like where can you get a good night sleep round here?
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC
There's rowing
from the hall
raised voices
Lydia
opens eyes
her sister
Gloria
(drunken slosh)
still sleeps on
behind her
her parents'
loud voices
rising high
quite musical
as if were
practising
for two roles
in an old
Puccini
opera
Lydia
listens out
for the words
wondering
what's the cause
of the row
probably
her father's
drunken voice
from the Square
in the night
singing out
Rose Marie
she gets up
out of bed
chilly dawn
birds singing
Gloria
is snoring
mouth open
her clothes strewn
everywhere
underwear
on the floor
by the door
Gloria's
boyfriend sleeps
behind her
his dark hair
visible
sticking out
Lydia
didn't know
he'd sneaked in
at some hour
the row stops
a few murmurs
then silence
a door bangs
then a voice
(her mother's)
bellows out
HOPE YOU LOSE
YOUR NOISY
SCOTTISH VOICE
Lydia
wonders if
Benny's up
in the flat
up the stairs
whether his
parents row
as hers do
she'll see him
that morning
in the Square
she'll ask him
when he's there
with his brown
hair and quiff
hazel eyes
and warm stare.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
I though I knew Love.
The way one knows their oldest friend,
Far better than they know themselves.
Love, all roses and dramatic declarations.
Love the knight in shining armour,
The arouser of underlying strength.
Love the warmest embrace on the coldest day
When the bitter chill can't die down the flames,
Or cool the burning blush.
Love, walking barefoot across the city,
Carrying your heels,
To save your broken feet.
Love, flying thousands of miles
So that you don't have to face the tears without me.
Love, the sounds of Puccini
Filling the world with just one kiss.
Love, the small favours and the grand gestures.
Love.
I thought I knew Love.
As vital to me as the moon to the earth.
But yet here I stand, alone.
Injured, weak.
Love my Delilah,
I was your Samson,
Now I sit among the braids you cut from me,
Among the life you stole from me.
Love I never knew you at all.
For who could hope to understand,
The chaos of a woman's heart,
And the destruction of an ill chosen
Love
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
You pick up the book
on Schopenhauer
that Benedict had been reading.
You scan a few pages
then put it down.
Benedict is in the shower
showering after the ***
half hour back.
You had been first
standing there
feeling the hot water
freshen you up.
Soon you are going out
to the City to go see
that pianist play
a selection of Chopin
and Debussy.
You go to the window
and look out
on the grounds
of the hotel.
After the concert
dinner at that restaurant you like
and hopefully be served
by that Croatian waiter
who sends a tingle
through your nerves
when he speaks
and his eyes are on you
and he does stare so.
Benedict doesn't notice
he is so busy ogling
the passing female
waitresses to notice you
fluttering your eyelashes
at the waiter.
Hurry up Benny
you call out
over the Puccini aria
on the radio
nearly time to go.
Won't be long
he answers back.
You remember him
the night before
******* you
from the rear
saying
won't be long dear.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
the ears
which savored
Bach and Mozart
Beethoven and Brahms
Handel and Hayden
operatic voices
as angels
lifting up to the
very thone of
God
Wagner
Puccini
Verde
Roccini
and
Bizet
.
.
.
deafening
crashes
of kamikaze
coming down
on ships
all around him
.
.
.
the boom
of his cannons
as they shot
them
.
.
.
down
now dead
hearing only
a shushing sound
the inside of a shell
the eyes
which beheld
The Great Books
loved the work of
Mark Twain
and
read
voraciously
loved art
and saw
The Bomb
being
dropped
on
Enewetak
Atol
.
.
.
now becoming
dull with
diffused
light
.
.
.
body
wizened
and
shaped
like
a
?
I am
watching
as a brilliant
beautiful
man
***SLOWLY
DIES***
pieces
of
me
fall
into
the
grave
*as
well*
.
.
.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 10/11/2016
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 2:28 AM UTC
March 20th, it's been a year
I'm remembering things
that i hold dear
your thirst for knowledge
your passion for words
the melody in your heart
and the song unheard.
a story for every single day of the year
a quote for each moment
candid, yet genuine
and always sincere
there was strength in your presence
in every venture you'd seek
the will of an ox
as if silence could speak
And the music you loved
puccini...pavoratti
we watched them comfort your being
as the smile left your body
you were one of a kind
your own work of art
now your passion unfettered
lives forever in my heart.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
Feast Of Summer Moons
A Poem by Eve aka Corset
Tonight and all over the earth,
there is merriment.
Cocky birds will dance
at maske and vest.,
and many times at best
I have dreamt of this
in sadness
still to awake with laughter
within my breast.
and yet
beyond these lids
and lashes,
the world is
still our oyster,
whether it be hailed
by sighing violins
or paired by
charmed footsteps.
Madame Butterfly;
my cupid kills in arrows
and so grieves her;
her Puccini,
should love speak
beyond a reasonable
torment of expectation.
Let her feast then
beneath the moons
soft with light and
with souls as bright
as sunlight, brilliant
upon the water
bound not
by counterfeits of passion,
having railed
so long at love,
that it does seem to
have become a habit.
Whisper again
to a ****** night,
that dreams with
eyes wide open,
sailing to a song within.
Love is ancient and ageless and
hearts will remain young
forever,
for which men and women
will hunger,
because,
amour sweet amour
is a feast
and fit
for summer moons.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
In the heart of the Tuscany under Italy's sun
Lies the town of Lucca, which is known to some
As Giacomo Puccini's birthplace, and the truth to be told,
He's Italian composer, one of the best in the world.
In the times of Medieval - far back in the past
Thrived the banking in Lucca and the art of silk craft ...
....
The legend has that at those times and in this very city
Lucia Manco lived so gorgeous, vane and pretty.
Though cunning Satan made her splendid stunning beauty last
On the condition, that her lovers souls to Devil pass she must.
... For quite a while this deal worked really well
- Men souls were going from her bed straight to the Hell.
For quite long time she never fell in love, we trust
- Her drive was simply egotistic vanity and crave for lust.
But even magic comes to undeterred sudden end
- She met young man, to whom she loving heart of hers has lent.
She would not dare to corrupt his wholesome soul,
And lost her beauty just at once forever and for all.
He lost his love to her at instance when she lost her femine charms .
But to the worst, the Devil told him that he held his mother in his arms!
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
*They carried him in to Vivaldi´s spring
as we sat there so quiet and sombre,
suffering pain that this service would bring
on this freezing cold day in November.
We spoke of his life, sang psalm twenty three
and offered up prayers whilst down on our knees,
fought back the tears that were wanting to flow
in this old grey church with soft candle glow.
Puccini played as they carried him out
to the grave that was dug on that morning,
Pavarotti sang, we followed the route
the effect of our loss was now dawning.
Lowered him into his bed of cold earth,
his darkness eternal, same as our love*.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
mistakes were made,
and things were said,
and none of us knew how to love life properly.
we used to say that we're unhappy
and that we tried and tried and tried
but lied.
that we did our best to change our state of misery,
to become better people for the people in our homes,
but we know now that wasn't true.
I never grabbed your arm while sinking in my dreams,
I never screamed while I was awake, but only in my sleep,
I was in pain my entire life. I never knew how to handle pain.
I never called it out. I carried it with me. the pain was sharp.
I wasn't. my edges got torn. there were fingerprints all over my face and body. my house was left empty. clean. not a soul inside. not a tear. I always dreamt of drowning. the sea was dreaming of dying inside me, being hyper ventilated. being choked with air and dryness.
you never told me that I was draining all the joy from your life
you never brought wine, nor cookies, nor take-away.
the only thing you carried around in a doggie bag, after a dinner out at the restaurant, was you soul. or, what was left of it after
both of us fed from it.
you never cried in your sleep, but only while you were awake,
you tried to warn me you were thunder, but I never got to hear the end of your words.
you never left,
you never came,
you were always in my heart.
we didn't make each other unhappier,
but we didn't manage to do it the other way, either.
we were never sorry. we never got to regret the ride.
we were in this together. all in. all ice.
we are the ones that cannot be forgiven,
we are the east and the west,
the Nile and the Amazon, each on his own continent,
together on our own Earth,
none of us in danger of ever becoming wadi,
we were music.
beautiful classical music that sounds great on its own
but is awful if you play it all at once..
if you push through the speakers with Bach,
add up Vivaldi, then Brahms, then Debussy, then throw in a little bit of Grieg, then Enescu, then salt things up with Puccini and, to spice things up, add just a pinch of Kennedy.
what happens to people like us?
the same thing that happens when people like us. we get lost.
in a room full of people, we become invisible
- like air.
the only thing that proves that we still exist
is all the dust
that travels through us.
we never liked them parties,
we never really wanted to be there,
yet we kept coming back, hoping
to get it right this time.
wishing to be a little more wiser this time around,
wearing our best clothes and
the lowest self-esteem.
we are just so ******* happy to be alive.
sorry. what I meant to say was
"we are just so ******* less unhappy to be alive!"
things were made,
and mistakes were said,
and none of us knew how to live love properly.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
1
Mother in garden
hanging nappies for drying
child watches from pram
2
It's the Aussie sun
that turns all the fields to brown
this is Christmas time
3
Teacher to the kids
who was Puccini?
' kind of zucchini'
4 *
'Twas the school-concert
the head boy proudly announced
' John will pay Chop--pin'
5
The roses have thorns
I am ready with scissors
What 'Haiden-Roselein?' #
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
Miss Pinkie put on
the Puccini arias
(she dropped the Mrs
when her husband
went off with the air
hostess *****
he was working with)
and bought me a scotch
into her lounge.
You what to stay
the night?
She said.
If I can my sister's
got a man friend
staying over and I said
he could have my bed.
She sipped her scotch
and looked at me.
What about
my reputation?
She said.
I can sleep
in the spare bed
I said.
But people might
see you leaving
in the early hours
and still come
to the same conclusion
she said smiling.
Guess they would
I said.
The Tosca aria
was being sung
by some dame.
Do you promise
to be good?
Miss Pinkie said.
Aren't I always?
I said.
She sipped the scotch
mostly so
she said
but you'll have
to leave discretely
can't have you
waltzing out of here
in plain daylight
or the neighbours
will talk.
I will be
as discrete
as I can
I said.
We sipped our drinks
and the La Boheme aria started
this is my favourite
she said looking at me
putting a hand
on my thigh.
Mine too
I said
finishing my *****
She put down
the glasses
and turned to me
and said
you feeling tired?
No not yet
I replied.
Good let's go
to bed then
she said.
So we went
and she turned
out the light
and we walked
to her room
lit up by moonlight
and undressed
and got into bed.
The Puccini arias
still being sung
and Miss Pinkie
sang along in her
soft soprano.
I lay beside her
feeling along her thigh
and she stopped singing
and let out a sigh.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 4:25 AM UTC
When I walk alone in the street
People stop and stare at me
And everyone looks at my beauty,
Looks at me,
From head to foot...
And then I relish the sly yearning
which escapes from their eyes
and which is able to perceive
my most hidden beauties.
Thus the scent of desire is all around me,
and it makes me happy, makes me happy!
And you who know, who remember and yearn
you shrink from me?
I know it very well:
you do not want to express your anguish,
I know so well that you do not want to express it
but you feel as if you are dying!
(Composer Giacomo Puccini 1858 - 1924)
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 7:14 AM UTC
Robert Pinpick Theater 161,100 new themes: 610019912 today, Canada, Mexico, Apollo Technology "4" February 12 'Run' Chance north - April Spain Kikad (1), Switzerland, France, Italy, Japan, members of Kyrgyzstan believe in protection of the earth for Those who expand through Asia, Germany, Italy and what it is like, and know what hell is, they are creatures, scientists possessed by demons. (100) In the Swiss Paul 100K MT 12 4 (161) 4 and 3 Ahmed Izhik Rzivz International, South Africa, South Africa, South Africa, Italy, Germany, is the father of the West (161) in the history of the wise man Water, mixed with the air. Nirvana trains "Robert Denton, Robert Denton 161 sunlight" and fishing in the hot and cold areas of Canada, Mexico, 12100 Mexico 16100199) (12) Same day, Switzerland, France, Italy) cm (May 161) 3 April Burkina Faso Faso and Pulsin "Kentucky Spain". and, in fact, the health and women of women "my mother is my mother ..." 'Mares, and the rest to other countries in Europe, Europe, Germany, Italy, South Africa, Italy, ASL USA (Gloria) "I know why (complicated) and I hope that the United States of Germany, South Africa, Africa, East and West" - Italy, Germany, Italy, Japan, Kennedy Bridge and Hands Cork (161), Vladimir "bad father, except without the sun, known as "Dan M" by Juan and "Asia" by Roberto, "Asia, Italy, from 1,000 cm to 400" in South Africa "South Africa" Nirviran "South Africa." 'ASL (Fang) It's not hot in the today's wars 'I do not know' 'great fight every day', as in Europe, especially in Germany and other European cities.The father is the most important city, but only in the ASL, the West (FSA) has died and is walking, except ... Story: Demons Demons Demons Demons Demons are a young man and "culinary clothes" in "Mash in the Gardens", "Nechirvan", "Frying Sewage" and Robert Demon in "Robert Demon". Dunney 161 days of cold and cold aquarium in Canada, Mexico, Mexico, 100 6100199 (12), 12 of South Korea, per day. Switzerland, France, Italy, 1000-200-4 cm (March 161), 3 Burkina Faso and 3 Puccini "Kentucky Spain". After all, the health of women and women is "my mother and my mother." From the lake, lakes and gates. In addition, Europe and other European countries, Germany, Italy, South Africa, Italy and the United States of America (ACI, Bang.) "I do not know the heat and the day of the fight" "We do not know what IAA John ACI is in South Africa and South Africa, especially in Germany, Germany. "West West" for your protection, with the exception of the custody of children and 1 child, "Mother and mother of my mother", the most important city in the world. , Germany, Italy, Japan, Spain, are said to have been named Kennedy in the 161-year-old government in Kirkuk (ACI, Bing, FSA), 161. My aunt got sick because of my parents, but we did not know ... our methods were there, but I did not know the way west.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC