"vespa" poems
Out on the road in the middle of the night,
I made my way with no one in sight.
Hugging all the tight corners and vrooming on the straights,
Burning tyre rubber at alarming rates.
Little did I know at that hour along the next turn,
There'd be another person.
With the wind in her hair and one of the most lovely face,
She rode her little pink vespa with amazing grace.
I happened to have crossed paths with her in a traffic rule breaking fashion,
A move I made with deadly precision.
Instantly she uttered that lovely swear word with a sweet loud tone,
******* she said, raising her middle finger alone.
Wrong I was and would've apologized if I could stop,
But in a hurry I was and a high speed it all to top.
Late that night, those stream of events ran through my head,
I pondered on it as I lay in bed.
Swear words! Instantly blurted in the spur of the moment,
Yet originating from the heart's deepest cavity and vent.
Pure to the core,
No hidden meaning they store.
Swear words may have been considered in appropriate and shunned in the world,
Yet they convey what a person feels most appropriately when they are hurled.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
Cabana, cheese and mustard sauce
Do grace the tablecloth,
White puffy clouds and warm south breeze
And joy in chilled beer's froth.
Hot sun doth bake these stony walls
Sweet mandolins do play,
And the pigeons peck at breadcrumbs caste.
And all fares well today.
Young darting men on Vespa's
Ply their arrogant good looks,
And those stunning senoritas
Strut their stuff while momma cooks.
Monsignors in scarlet robes
Do scurry through the town
Dispensing Catholic action
To any soul who is around.
Madonna's guard the roadside shrines
Where hot seal winds aloft
Toward the craggy mountain pass
And pastured alpine croft.
The peasant woman bends her spine
Trudging forth with strain,
Wood ******* piled upon her back,
Up hillward bound with pain.
Old men sit and ruminate
And watch the young girls pass,
Whilst nursing dark retsina
In an opaque thimble glass.
The olive trees look stately
In their crooked ancient way,
And cast a darkened shadow
Where the roosting chicken's lay.
And out across the mounded hills
The patchwork quilt of farm
And out beyond that deep azure
Of Italian coastal charm.
Seaward to horizon
The aqua blue intense
Extends as far as eye can see
Mediterranean immense.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
23 January 2010
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:30 AM UTC
I have fallen in love
With the air, the trees
The thinly paved and often cracked roads
And even moreso with those covered in cobblestone.
I have fallen in love with the tanned locals
Old shopkeepers with hats and bifocals
Their calling voices
The natural movement of their hands
The cool sea water
And hot white sands.
I have fallen in love with espresso
And how it feels in my throat
The smell of leather
Taste of gelato
Harbours full of fishing boats
The sound of a vintage vespa
Weaving its way through a crowd
The arguing couple, arguing loud
And this is a country of which to be proud.
I have fallen in love with the architecture
The vast and complex history
The more I learn the more I admit is a mystery.
I have fallen in love with the way the sun shines brighter
The air is fresher
And the fruit is sweeter
The men are bolder
And the books are cheaper.
I have fallen in love with the words they say
And how those words effortlessly roll off their tongues
I breathe in their culture
And try to hold it in my lungs.
Pizza, pesto, cute cafes
Absence of anxiety, holidays
The tourists who view it all through a camera lense
Adventure begins and tension ends.
I have fallen in love with it all
Every flower
Every hue
All those pairs of knock-off sunglasses
I love them too.
Every cloud
Every ray of sunshine
Every drop of ***** riverwater
Every painted line
Every brick
Of every church
On all those hills
In all those tiny towns
That populate the green countryside
And every visionary who in them has lived and died
I love
But most of all
I have fallen in love with the version of me
That comes out when I am in Italy
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
si pembawa vespa
ku dengar suara bising dari dalam rumah ku
suaranya semakin mendekat
oh ternyata dikau
si pembawa vespa itu..
malam itu sangat dingin
karna hujan habis mengguyur alam semesta
aku dan si pembawa vespa
menyusuri sepanjang jalan
sambil ia berkata
"lihat itu ada kucing pakai kerudung bawa samurai"
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC
I'm going to start a trend when I get back home,
gonna need a Vespa and a beret and bigger *****
to scoot around the drivers back there.
They don't care about nobody but themselves.
But maybe I can change the world
or at least some nasty driving habits
with my new persona,
it's worth a try anyways,
gonna play like a madman.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 6:50 AM UTC
my friends told me , that if I wrote how i felt,
my poetry would be more popular
you see...the only thing ive felt,
for as long as I can remember, is my love for you,
drowning in your love,
my ears deafened by sweet giggles,
im hooked on your personality,
midnight vespa rides screaming like cannibals
my friends told me to write about how I felt...
and I don't know how to put words together
combine prefixs and verbs and nouns together
to form a sentance that could even come close,
to how you make me feel...
my friends told me to write about how I feel,
to bad they dont know you exist
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
Inside my helmet
First my right ear then my left
Asks my mind to scratch.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 4:04 AM UTC
Tell me about the easter where
the egg hunted the bunny.
And tell me, just me, about the morning glory
when feeling dew on grass,
air in fluffy carpets.
Tell about running blindfolded
towards something that never
shows it self.
And tell me, only me, about when you flew to Cali
and found a filled bed.
Tell me about the drop
that weighed more.
Show me how to tie my shoelaces,
my shoes never untying.
Show me how to stand up as if
my own hair is the crown I wear.
Show me the short cuts and the easys.
Show me how easily the trophies break,
And show me how to stitch up a wound
I’ll soon be stitching up my own.
Tell me about the vespa that got you places,
like Aladdin’s carpet got him.
Tell me about the power of the seas,
and show me your favourite hat.
Show me how to reck
and show me how to build.
Tell me about the flower that never blooms,
just like a night in winter.
If you do, remember to show me the flower that always blooms,
with the spirit of the olympic fire.
Please tell me.
The maze of a life turns in
unexpected places.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC