"sacco" poems
A little red fire truck
Given to a boy
Who knew that little fire truck
Would bring so much joy?
He plays and pretends
To be putting out flames
All the kids on the street
Want to know his name
He loves his little fire truck
He hates to put it away
But mother says he has to
Tommorow is another day
A little red fire truck
Sits untouched
Over the years
It's collected some dust
The boy now is grown
Going through some old stuff
And at the bottom of a old box
He finds a small truck
He remembers the fun he had
Playing in the floor
And can't recall the last time
He wanted anything more
He sits for a moment
Replaying all the memories
And smiling to himself says
",You know, life's about the little things".
Crystal Sacco
August 13,2014
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
I was reminded today how quickly things can change
One day there is sunshine and then came the rain
The sunshine was nice, beautiful and warm
But with the morning came a dark, wet, cold storm
I thought of how in life it's often the same joy in one season
And in some seasons pain
But as I thought of the sun but gazed at the storm
I thought it was just as beautiful as the warm day before
The cold hurt a little and I had to layer up but the view before me hadn't changed that much
In life it's the same, storms bring cold air
We have to layer up not with clothes but with prayer
No matter the season life is beautiful still
No matter the hurt or pain we might feel
We should always lean on Jesus he is our shelter from the storm
And remember his love for us will always keep up warm
So when clouds roll in and you find yourself in fear
Layer up and know that HE is near.
- Crystal Sacco
4/26/15
Written after spending a weekend at my in laws cabin in Colorado. Saturday was beautiful sunny and warm all day. And Sunday morning came and it was very cold and snowed/rained all day! Both days were BEAUTIFUL! :)
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
I am a simple soul
When I die I want to be remembered fondly as a pretty decent poet
I don't want fanfare
But if I receive it I won't complain
Most of all I want to be remembered
My greatest fear is that everything I am and everything I have ever done will be reduced to a forgotten blip in the back of someone's mind
How I so much wish I had the power and strength to start fires I have no intention of putting out
My greatest philosophy is that a majority of people who do evil know **** well what they are doing, they just don't care
And enough of them can get away with it to inspire the next generation
Let me inspire a generation that won't allow evil to be done and go unpunished
Leniency towards evil is a joke that stopped being funny long before now
It never really was funny to start out with
Sometimes I catch myself thinking of all the rocks thrown at Peekskill and how they got away with it
I think of the four dead in Ohio
Even now I think of Sacco and Vanzetti and cry
I am a simple soul
I only wish that you remember those that came before us and sacrificed everything they had
And then I hope you think of me
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 12:37 AM UTC
Vanno verso le Terme di Caracalla
giovani amici, a cavalcioni
di Rumi o Ducati, con maschile
pudore e maschile impudicizia,
nelle pieghe calde dei calzoni
nascondendo indifferenti, o scoprendo,
il segreto delle loro erezioni...
Con la testa ondulata, il giovanile
colore dei maglioni, essi fendono
la notte, in un carosello
sconclusionato, invadono la notte,
splendidi padroni della notte...
Va verso le Terme di Caracalla,
eretto il busto, come sulle natie
chine appenniniche, fra tratturi
che sanno di bestia secolare e pie
ceneri di berberi paesi - già impuro
sotto il gaglioffo basco impolverato,
e le mani in saccoccia - il pastore
migrato
undicenne, e ora qui, malandrino e
giulivo
nel romano riso, caldo ancora
di salvia rossa, di fico e d'ulivo...
Va verso le Terme di Caracalla,
il vecchio padre di famiglia, disoccupato,
che il feroce Frascati ha ridotto
a una bestia cretina, a un beato,
con nello chassì i ferrivecchi
del suo corpo scassato, a pezzi,
rantolanti: i panni, un sacco,
che contiene una schiena un po' gobba,
due cosce certo piene di croste,
i calzonacci che gli svolazzano sotto
le saccocce della giacca pese
di lordi cartocci. La faccia
ride: sotto le ganasce, gli ossi
masticano parole, scrocchiando:
parla da solo, poi si ferma,
e arrotola il vecchio mozzicone,
carcassa dove tutta la giovinezza,
resta, in fiore, come un focaraccio
dentro una còfana o un catino:
non muore chi non è mai nato.
811
La storia non si snoda
come una catena
di anelli ininterrotta.
In ogni caso
molti anelli non tengono.
La storia non contiene
il prima e il dopo,
nulla che in lei borbotti
a lento fuoco.
La storia non è prodotta
da chi la pensa e neppure
da chi l'ignora. La storia
non si fa strada, si ostina,
detesta il poco a poco, non procede
né recede, si sposta di binario
e la sua direzione
non è nell'orario.
La storia non giustifica
e non deplora,
la storia non è intrinseca
perché è fuori.
La storia non somministra carezze o colpi di frusta.
La storia non è magistra
di niente che ci riguardi. Accorgersene non serve
a farla più vera e più giusta.
La storia non è poi
la devastante ruspa che si dice.
Lascia sottopassaggi, cripte, buche
e nascondigli. C'è chi sopravvive.
La storia è anche benevola: distrugge
quanto più può: se esagerasse, certo
sarebbe meglio, ma la storia è a corto
di notizie, non compie tutte le sue vendette.
La storia gratta il fondo
come una rete a strascico
con qualche strappo e più di un pesce sfugge.
Qualche volta s'incontra l'ectoplasma
d'uno scampato e non sembra particolarmente felice.
Ignora di essere fuori, nessuno glie n'ha parlato.
Gli altri, nel sacco, si credono
più liberi di lui.
761
Maybe someday I will be like Vazetti and Sacco
Perch'io non spero
to spend the rest of my years
with people acting on lies about me/despising me
My cries are that of the desert wolves
The ones that tried to warn me
The ones that tried to save me
By ending my existence
I can't explain it either
It's just the way the ball in my pen rolls
Try to rock and roll yourself to heaven
But I don't wish for the mustangs run at night
So I cry a song of loneliness;of emptiness and want
of the hunger and the heartaches
All I can do is pray
With my arms around you
Is where I want to be
With my arms around you
Everything else is non sequitur
With my arms around you
I will make it go away
With my arms around you
I will make it stay
With my arms around you
On a mound or on the moon
With my arms around you
In a march or in the month of June
With my arms around you
And taste your sweet deliciousness
With my arms around you
buon anno, fly into my heart and nest
With my arms around you
And I'll be the man in my woman's arms
With my arms around you
There isn't any other way I'd like to play
With my arms around you
Get in here today Maybe someday I will be like Vazetti and Sacco
Perch'io non spero
to spend the rest of my years
with people acting on lies about me/despising me
My cries are that of the desert wolves
The ones that tried to warn me
The ones that tried to save me
By ending my existence
I can't explain it either
It's just the way the ball in my pen rolls
Try to rock and roll yourself to heaven
But I don't wish for the mustangs run at night
So I cry a song of loneliness; of emptiness and want
of the hunger and the heartaches
All I can do is pray
With my arms around you
Is where I want to be
With my arms around you
Everything else is non-sequitur
With my arms around you
I will make it go away
With my arms around you
I will make it stay
With my arms around you
On a mound or on the moon
With my arms around you
In a march or in the month of June
With my arms around you
And taste your sweet deliciousness
With my arms around you
buon anno, fly into my heart and nest
With my arms around you
And I'll be the man in my woman's arms
With my arms around you
There isn't any other way I'd like to play
With my arms around you
Get in here today
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
From old to new
From new to old
Over the ages
Different stories told
Through song, through story
Through poems unfold
The victories and the sorrows
Of a life untold
Some are written
For all to see
Others kept away
For ones heart to keep
Those stories, those songs
The poems all tell
The feelings and emotions
Hidden within ourselves
Crystal Sacco
My daughter has taken an intrest in
writing ,so with her permission
I am sharing this poem that she
wrote. Please let us know what you
think.
Thank you.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
I haven't written in weeks
And when I did before the words read empty
As they tend to do
Again I find myself sitting alone
A table for one facing the wall
Lost in the sea of a college campus
Hundreds of miles away LRADs blast away protesters protecting sacred land
Stock prices unthinking and unfeeling
Are obsessed over by men in suits who won't have to worry about if they get to eat tonight
On my arms I carve the words I learned in a women's studies class freshman year
"The personal is political"
Personally I am desolate
Disillusioned with anything I've ever had to say
Unable to bring myself to say more
Politically I am livid
In my veins are the Sacco and Vanzetti electricity
So I spit
Look to the ground
and walk
With a look of righteous anger
And I read
Collected works of Huey Newton and an article about Marxism and Class
When the personal and the political meet I feel hopeless
Disoriented and disillusioned
Not two halves at war but two puzzle pieces desperately trying to fit
I think of a heaven after I die
While advocating for a heaven on earth for everyone
I want to stand and fight
While I feel uncomfortable speaking up in class
I don't believe there is freedom in a free market
But what do I really know about it anyways?
Freedom and hope and art and love
Words that swim around in my head
They lack solidity
I can't grasp them
The meaning drips out of my ears as if they were bleeding
I can't fall asleep at night because I keep coughing
I think about Woody Guthrie
Singing about the powers of the working class and dreaming of what America could one day become
I think of his better world and I can console myself with the ringing of guitar in my ears
I think about Pat
Looking for times worth living in whatever car or house he lives in
Breaking windows to redemption if not freedom and holding on with all that's left
I think about myself
One year of poetry under my belt
Still struggling with what I want to say
Centuries of politics in my head
Still struggling with who I want to be
Personal and political are more than just words to me
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC