"signor" poems
492
Civilization—spurns—the Leopard!
Was the Leopard—bold?
Deserts—never rebuked her Satin—
Ethiop—her Gold—
Tawny—her Customs—
She was Conscious—
Spotted—her Dun Gown—
This was the Leopard’s nature—Signor—
Need—a keeper—frown?
Pity—the Pard—that left her Asia—
Memories—of Palm—
Cannot be stifled—with Narcotic—
Nor suppressed—with Balm—
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How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?
No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.
The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.
Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.
Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.
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429
The Moon is distant from the Sea—
And yet, with Amber Hands—
She leads Him—docile as a Boy—
Along appointed Sands—
He never misses a Degree—
Obedient to Her Eye
He comes just so far—toward the Town—
Just so far—goes away—
Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand—
And mine—the distant Sea—
Obedient to the least command
Thine eye impose on me—
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I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes—
Each—with a Robin’s expectation—
I—with my Redbreast—
And my Rhymes—
Late—when I take my place in summer—
But—I shall bring a fuller tune—
Vespers—are sweeter than Matins—Signor—
Morning—only the seed of Noon—
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She, good signor, whom in stormy sea
With thee faithfully and firmly stood--
Steadying the family boat with fasting
And prayer whilst thou hard wert rowing
Against tempest--should nay in peace
And prosperity be by thy head misunderstood
Nor for another girl be in thine eyes contemned,
Lest by heaven thy new blessing is ******
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 1:56 AM UTC
You may not want me to tell you about
The Galilean thermometer,
But I’m going to tell you anyway:
[It will improve your life!]
The GT is colorful – its rainbow
Of glass bubbles sparkle
Slowly as they sink and swim
Buoyantly in liquid.
Signor Galileo was savvy for his age
[Late Elizabethan],
Even though he didn’t shoot an
Apple off anybody’s head.
GG was one step ahead of Einstein
[Alphabetically]
As his popular theorem posited that
If D↓, T↑.
This can be seen by ogling the GT
[Note the dog tags]
And checking to see if the blues
Are higher than the reds.
In Galilean terms the colors of the
Glass bulbs are unimportant
Since D is a function of the dog tags,
[Ma Nature dictates the T].
GG invented the GT because he had
A dream one day that
The climate in Pisa was warming up
[The tower began to lean].
Rising and falling as a result of density
Isn’t new to science:
[Jump in the neighborhood pool].
Ethanol in water.
GG’s heirs haven’t profited much from
the GT, nor has it been widely
copied by entrepreneurs of note:
[“slow and lazy”].
The verdict on the GT is still out, but
Early reports suggest it won’t
Exceed the popularity of the Chia Pet
As the holidays approach.
© Lewis Bosworth, 6-2016
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC
On a back street in Mexico City meal sellers tend their stalls,
dark faced men feed from ceramic bowls,
menus are simple in black-board and chalk
everything is flavoured with chilli and
huddled shoulders reveal little small-talk.
Street lamps throw more shadow than light
and gas leaking from somewhere
feeds the air with an acrid scent.
I stop for a bowl of chilli-beans,
beside me and one over at the bar
a young man with matted hair and
heavy eyes unwraps a stained cloth,
takes a shard from a broken bottle and
neatly incises a small vein in his wrist.
He lets the blood drip evenly into a saucer
beside him and in the other hand holds what seems
to be a quill made from an eagle feather or some large winged bird.
Dipping the quill in the gathering blood he begins to write
in a leather bound book
on tawn-coloured hand made paper.
I watch every move. No-one seems
to care or notice that he does this.
He writes on and on, scratches a word,
dips again - the blood flows more slowly;
what has gathered seems sufficient,
he spits in the saucer takes a shot of clear liquid (probably tequilla) and adds it to the mixture,
I assume this is to stop it coagulating.
My meal and appetite have gone cold watching this process.
When the blood-ink is all but used
he folds the book away, wraps his wrist in a stained cloth and
walks into the street of shadow and meal sellers steam.
The stall holder notices me and approaches:
“Si signor this is Miguel the poet of the people.
He is coming many times to write this way.”
He smiles at me. I pay for the unfinished meal and he says,
“The poetry for the people is in his veins amigo,
is this not so in your country, are you also having such a poet?”
I leave him. Return to my hotel room.
Take out portable type writer and clean white paper
And begin to write
in blood blacker than ink.
MChallis © 2015
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC
Signor Bialetti Brews the Coffee now
Grazie, grazie, Signor Bialetti
Natty with your moustache and pork-pie hat
Charming man, your aluminum design
And Italian elegance grace my stove
If Don Camillo were to visit now
And bring along his ****** pal Peppone
They would still argue faith and politics
Just as they do in Emelia-Romagna
But here, over biscotti and expresso -
Grazie, grazie, Signor Bialetti!
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC
My buckle was tightened,
My hair pulled back.
The counting lowered
To a slower track.
It spit,
It moaned,
Then took off towards the sun,
Bringing me unknowingly
To Florence's most gifted son.
Haphazardly it crashed,
By a tree with a sputter,
And a poor startled child
Who gave a choke and a stutter.
My blood rose,
I crawled out,
In robes that were so
Immaculately made
Like a goddess would sew.
So I journeyed with grace
Across the sun kissed land,
Towards a busy town
That sounded proud to stand.
Bickering,
Singing,
In a stench of waste and wine,
Conditions in which
My own people would wine.
In a market of sorts,
I met my friend Leonardo,
Who sought about
With his pet cat Lombardo.
Rags,
Candle sticks,
He would aimlessly buy,
We greeted with smiles
As we passed each other by.
“Sono Signor da Vinci.”
He said through his beard,
The richest voice
That I had heard.
I assisted,
And learned,
In his bizarre eye,
And found he had a far
Sharper brain than I.
The man insisted that he
Could soar without wings,
And each day took part
In the most peculiar things.
“It is finished!”
“It is ruined!”
His passions were so great,
I could feel his frustrations,
And hear his teeth grate.
Then once,
With no mind,
I grinned at his temper,
Which made him glare-
The strongest one I remember.
But, he paused, and said
“Mona Lisa, give another?”
And I smiled once more as he lead.
Now in museums,
People crowd by the wall,
They notice my face,
And they tremble and fall.
“Her eyes!”
“Her hair!”
I always draw in a line,
Of inquiring tourists
Who struggle to align.
Now try as I might,
Though I had upfront sight,
His brilliance was too complex to site
On paper,
In art,
His soul,
It dripped
From every pore
And sought to touch
The mind much more
Than any genius
Known before.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Morning Coffee with Signor Bialetti
Wreckage is everywhere, two apple trees down
Limbs and leaves and litter, shingles and wood
The lawns are white with shoals of springtime hail
The lines are down and the power is out
But Signor Bialetti from Italy
A super-hero in aluminum
Is pleased to take his place on the camping stove
Twirl his moustache and stride through Sterno fire
Singing songs from his favorite libretti
While making us coffee – O brave Signor Bialetti!
Apr 18, 2021
Apr 18, 2021 at 8:50 AM UTC