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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"
Sheldon Dsouza Feb 2015
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 ******* 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.
George Raitt Oct 2015
Inside my helmet
First my right ear then my left
Asks my mind to scratch.
Marshal Gebbie Jan 2010
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
Ariel Baptista Jun 2014
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
betterdays May 2014
falderal and balderdash
two little imps,
of some small renown.

falderal is a skinny,scrawny slip of a thing.
all intelligent darkness, rootlike in nature.
all grasping and clinging hands and feet.

balderdash, well he is
as his name implies,
round and shiny.
far less than exceedingly bright.
stolid, and cat curious,
smile quite endearing,
but a sense of humor
to be fearing.

imps they are,
as already stated,
of the cadre of earthbound. they are to each,
the yingle to the yangle,
the left to the right,
the peanut butter to the jelly, the day to the night.

apprentice and journeymen they be,
falderal quick to rush through the ranks. balderdash on record,
for longest ever time,
at the start of the race.
they are attatched to the place,
the "rooms" if you will.
of the quacksalver,
come life's strife coach, buttinskimentor.
(he thought to modernise and appeal to a larger demographic spread of people).
the shingle over his eaves, pronounces his name to be, hi. p.r. condriac esq.
if you please.

one day it might be,
when you are feeling,
confused and perhaps,
a tad frail
you skim your junk mail, then, you may find his brightly hued pamphlet,
just skitters to the pile top
and with the dust of conviction spread over thick, and a little innoccuos doubt, another mind trick.
you stupidly think i might try this chap out!
his work sounds appealing, if somewhat radical,
i hope i get lucky
and he gets to revealing,
the source of the foot odour, the smell in my shoes.
that makes me think of hell, and regurgitated *****.

unbeknown to your goodself you have begun, a set of trials, a hopless spell,
a winding serpentine course of sysiphian tasks,
(at a kind and generous 10percent off)
to rid yourself of,
this unholy smell,
which really is,
if i am a secret to tell,
the *** of falderal
and of course the sweat of balderdash's shiny brow,
and places less mentionable,
applied with delighted relish and made to stick with medical grade super glue.

and so after months of debraiding your life,
a light switches on
and an epiphany occurs,
you become wise to these minions of strife
and garner up the courage to yell "
it is a sham and he, but a shylock"

you then wend your way back to the good doctors rooms.
i can garantee you he will not be there,
to listen to your plight,
with due care he has long since,
packed up his snake show, revved up his vespa
and into the night's cacophony,
he has driven,
with journey man falderal and apprentice balderdash, in tow,
clinging on tight,
to the rear mudguard.

he now has other fools in his sight.

as to the problem of the pongy shoes,
to be rid of the smell.
the answer so simple,
you will hear in your mind the loud ringing of bells. garbage the lot shoes,
socks as well.
walk the world barefoot.
you will not be mocked,
but you may find that people mention the words,
slightly eccentric,
when you come to mind
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
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.
O voi che, mentre i culmini Apuani
il sole cinge d'un vapor vermiglio,
e fa di contro splendere i lontani
vetri di Tiglio;
venite a questa fonte nuova, sulle
***** la brocca, netta come specchio,
equilibrando tremula, fanciulle
di Castelvecchio;
e nella strada che già s'ombra, il busso
picchia dè duri zoccoli, e la gonna
stiocca passando, e suona eterno il flusso
della Corsonna:
fanciulle, io sono l'acqua della Borra,
dove brusivo con un lieve rombo
sotto i castagni; ora convien che corra
chiusa nel piombo.
A voi, prigione dalle verdi alture,
pura di vena, vergine di fango,
scendo; a voi sgorgo facile: ma, pure
vergini, piango:
non come piange nel salir grondando
l'acqua tra l'aspro cigolìo del pozzo:
io solo mando tra il gorgoglio blando
qualche singhiozzo.
Oh! la mia vita di solinga polla
nel taciturno colle delle capre!
Udir soltanto foglia che si crolla,
cardo che s'apre,
vespa che ronza, e queruli richiami
del forasiepe! Il mio cantar sommesso
era tra i poggi ornati di ciclami
sempre lo stesso;
sempre sì dolce! E nelle estive notti,
più, se l'eterno mio lamento solo
s'accompagnava ai gemiti interrotti
dell'assiuolo,
più dolce, più! Ma date a me, ragazze
di Castelvecchio, date a me le nuove
del mondo bello: che si fa? Le guazze
cadono, o piove?
E per le selve ancora si tracoglie,
o fate appietto? Ed il metato fuma,
o già picchiate? Aspettano le foglie
molli la bruma,
o le crinelle empite nè frondai
in cui dall'Alpe è scesa qualche breve
frasca di faggio? Od è già l'Alpe ormai
bianca di neve?
Più nulla io vedo, io che vedea non molto
quando chiamavo, con il mio rumore
fresco, il fanciullo che cogliea nel folto
macole e more.
Col nepotino a me venìa la bianca
vecchia, la Matta; e tuttavia la vedo
andare come vaccherella stanca
va col suo redo.
Nella deserta chiesa che rovina,
vive la bianca Matta dei Beghelli
più? Desta lei la sveglia mattutina
più, dè fringuelli?
Essa veniva al garrulo mio rivo
sempre garrendo dentro sé, la vecchia:
e io, garrendo ancora più, l'empivo
sempre la secchia.
Ah! che credevo d'essere sua cosa!
Con lei parlavo, ella parlava meco,
come una voce nella valle ombrosa
parla con l'eco.
Però singhiozzo ripensando a questa
che lasciai nella chiesa solitaria,
che avea due cose al mondo, e gliene resta
l'una, ch'è l'aria.
Death-throws Mar 2015
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
Olivia H Eckardt Dec 2016
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.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2019
At lunchtime pigeons and pinstripes dance with Rockette syncopation in front of Radio City
following the lead of thirty balloons encased
in vinyl tugged down the 50th Street station.

A chauffeured limousine pops out
a freshly groomed and leashed Pomeranian
seeking reunion with her dowager owner
getting purple locks and cuticles nearby.

At the columned entrance of Manhattan Bridge
two lovers kiss at the Canal Street stoplight
while a Vespa owner stops near the pedestrian
walk to hitch the love of his life in full stride.

Black children in bowlers and their Sunday finest
share a car in the Connie Island Cyclone
with Hasidic eyngls from Avenue J
carefully protecting their yarmulkes.

In the South Bronx the children of 136th Street
practice belly flops on an abandoned mattress
before chickening out on the adjacent kiddie pool
decorated with aqua waves, clown fish and mermaids.

The Monday field trip will transport ten
young Harlem poets to the Schomburg Library
to eulogize when Maya Angelou and Amiri Baraka
danced a jig on the ashes of Langston Hughes.

One will write a Christmas story about the time
Richard the reindeer took the Roosevelt Island
tram to bring  presents to the orphans
after Santa’s sled had fallen apart.
Satsih Verma Sep 2018
When you picked up
my pen, I wept.

Mercury rising,
the vespa gets ready
to strike.

This lifeless clay
wakes up, to bear the pain.

Do you remember,
when you bent down to―
touch the feet of a broken Buddha?

Before the ashes blew away.
you looked back
to make sure, it was a dream.

Stripped to the last color.
Van Gogh commits a sin.
He becomes alive.

This was my regime.
This was my echo.
Direction West
birds back to the nest
I need a rest so I'm
tagging along.

A V formation at every
station
but
some still jump the queue
I don't
they do.

a hum of quiet conversation,
the rationing of words on
this journey of birds
while
others squawk
loudly.

I wonder if
' Lonsdale'
is near
' Emmerdale '

Farmers travel too.

Bearded man with
a Vespa shirt on,
no sign of a scooter
or come to think of it
a razor either.

There appears to be more
earrings than
wedding rings
perhaps this is the
singles carriage.

And now a seat is available
so
I make myself comfortable
and try to close my eyes.
Satsih Verma Oct 2017
It was not a jubilee,
but I had come to pay my debt.

Stepping gingerly in your
father's study, you open the almirah.

No I am not afraid.
I have come to visit my father.

The hurt has not destroyed me completely.
Days were numbed like by vespa stings― with
burning, swelling and soreness.

I slide the clothes. In
deeper layer a plastic pack appears. on the
bed of dried rose petals,
sits a singed, brown vertebra―
collected after his funeral.

My talisman. I touch it.
Turn around―
don't look back
and walk away.
Grace E Nov 2020
She smears on her reddest lipstick
Pulls on her heaviest coat
Stuffs her hands in her leather gloves
Mounts her Vespa
Rides away into the stars
And never looks back
Satsih Verma Jun 2017
Vespa,
the live wasp
of paper house,
feeding the insects
to little ones.

Silicon valley.
The oranges were very sweet
and carpet beetles
eating away the fabric.
I have come from a faraway place
to taste the blood-stained raisins.

Do you know why we bury
our truths? The ancient gods
were very pleased to eat them.

The hymns don't tell the lie.
kfaye Feb 2019
c.

there are no white
chalk portraits on the wall like we used to
draw : bukowski, haruhi, and the ghost
line symbols.
but it's
the same orange vespa-knockoff sitting
on
the other side of the fence -
thesame withered brambles reaching out
beside the train tracks and dripping with water that
will
soon freeze. and bend them down to the
brown . earth . .
i am bowing too, .

w/out reverence
w/out  hitting the cue


i mark where i stood in microscopic pieces
of the bottoms of my shoes only
i go unheeded .as of yet

it will be
  the same as not at all .for most


these mornings are
  Flowers.
O voi che, mentre i culmini Apuani
il sole cinge d'un vapor vermiglio,
e fa di contro splendere i lontani
vetri di Tiglio;
venite a questa fonte nuova, sulle
***** la brocca, netta come specchio,
equilibrando tremula, fanciulle
di Castelvecchio;
e nella strada che già s'ombra, il busso
picchia dè duri zoccoli, e la gonna
stiocca passando, e suona eterno il flusso
della Corsonna:
fanciulle, io sono l'acqua della Borra,
dove brusivo con un lieve rombo
sotto i castagni; ora convien che corra
chiusa nel piombo.
A voi, prigione dalle verdi alture,
pura di vena, vergine di fango,
scendo; a voi sgorgo facile: ma, pure
vergini, piango:
non come piange nel salir grondando
l'acqua tra l'aspro cigolìo del pozzo:
io solo mando tra il gorgoglio blando
qualche singhiozzo.
Oh! la mia vita di solinga polla
nel taciturno colle delle capre!
Udir soltanto foglia che si crolla,
cardo che s'apre,
vespa che ronza, e queruli richiami
del forasiepe! Il mio cantar sommesso
era tra i poggi ornati di ciclami
sempre lo stesso;
sempre sì dolce! E nelle estive notti,
più, se l'eterno mio lamento solo
s'accompagnava ai gemiti interrotti
dell'assiuolo,
più dolce, più! Ma date a me, ragazze
di Castelvecchio, date a me le nuove
del mondo bello: che si fa? Le guazze
cadono, o piove?
E per le selve ancora si tracoglie,
o fate appietto? Ed il metato fuma,
o già picchiate? Aspettano le foglie
molli la bruma,
o le crinelle empite nè frondai
in cui dall'Alpe è scesa qualche breve
frasca di faggio? Od è già l'Alpe ormai
bianca di neve?
Più nulla io vedo, io che vedea non molto
quando chiamavo, con il mio rumore
fresco, il fanciullo che cogliea nel folto
macole e more.
Col nepotino a me venìa la bianca
vecchia, la Matta; e tuttavia la vedo
andare come vaccherella stanca
va col suo redo.
Nella deserta chiesa che rovina,
vive la bianca Matta dei Beghelli
più? Desta lei la sveglia mattutina
più, dè fringuelli?
Essa veniva al garrulo mio rivo
sempre garrendo dentro sé, la vecchia:
e io, garrendo ancora più, l'empivo
sempre la secchia.
Ah! che credevo d'essere sua cosa!
Con lei parlavo, ella parlava meco,
come una voce nella valle ombrosa
parla con l'eco.
Però singhiozzo ripensando a questa
che lasciai nella chiesa solitaria,
che avea due cose al mondo, e gliene resta
l'una, ch'è l'aria.
O voi che, mentre i culmini Apuani
il sole cinge d'un vapor vermiglio,
e fa di contro splendere i lontani
vetri di Tiglio;
venite a questa fonte nuova, sulle
***** la brocca, netta come specchio,
equilibrando tremula, fanciulle
di Castelvecchio;
e nella strada che già s'ombra, il busso
picchia dè duri zoccoli, e la gonna
stiocca passando, e suona eterno il flusso
della Corsonna:
fanciulle, io sono l'acqua della Borra,
dove brusivo con un lieve rombo
sotto i castagni; ora convien che corra
chiusa nel piombo.
A voi, prigione dalle verdi alture,
pura di vena, vergine di fango,
scendo; a voi sgorgo facile: ma, pure
vergini, piango:
non come piange nel salir grondando
l'acqua tra l'aspro cigolìo del pozzo:
io solo mando tra il gorgoglio blando
qualche singhiozzo.
Oh! la mia vita di solinga polla
nel taciturno colle delle capre!
Udir soltanto foglia che si crolla,
cardo che s'apre,
vespa che ronza, e queruli richiami
del forasiepe! Il mio cantar sommesso
era tra i poggi ornati di ciclami
sempre lo stesso;
sempre sì dolce! E nelle estive notti,
più, se l'eterno mio lamento solo
s'accompagnava ai gemiti interrotti
dell'assiuolo,
più dolce, più! Ma date a me, ragazze
di Castelvecchio, date a me le nuove
del mondo bello: che si fa? Le guazze
cadono, o piove?
E per le selve ancora si tracoglie,
o fate appietto? Ed il metato fuma,
o già picchiate? Aspettano le foglie
molli la bruma,
o le crinelle empite nè frondai
in cui dall'Alpe è scesa qualche breve
frasca di faggio? Od è già l'Alpe ormai
bianca di neve?
Più nulla io vedo, io che vedea non molto
quando chiamavo, con il mio rumore
fresco, il fanciullo che cogliea nel folto
macole e more.
Col nepotino a me venìa la bianca
vecchia, la Matta; e tuttavia la vedo
andare come vaccherella stanca
va col suo redo.
Nella deserta chiesa che rovina,
vive la bianca Matta dei Beghelli
più? Desta lei la sveglia mattutina
più, dè fringuelli?
Essa veniva al garrulo mio rivo
sempre garrendo dentro sé, la vecchia:
e io, garrendo ancora più, l'empivo
sempre la secchia.
Ah! che credevo d'essere sua cosa!
Con lei parlavo, ella parlava meco,
come una voce nella valle ombrosa
parla con l'eco.
Però singhiozzo ripensando a questa
che lasciai nella chiesa solitaria,
che avea due cose al mondo, e gliene resta
l'una, ch'è l'aria.
John Bartholomew Apr 2023
Dad always said you're either a MOD or a Rocker
Well after a few years of choosing I decided on the clobber
Pin stripe suit and a nice comfy parka
Not some grease monkey, slicked back hair, who looked like he'd not seen a bath yet
I preferred the music, the beat, the soul
They liked grit, the grind and the ***** rock and roll
And then came the final choice in which world you did bounce
Vespa, Lambretta or a Triumph in a way to announce
So did I look the hard nut sat on my BSA?
I'd rather look like Mr Cool, thinking I'm Ace Face today
Trip's down to Brighton for a fight on the beach
Before having our breakfast at an all you can eat
Those were the days where you could really have a laugh
Then a trip back home, best have my tea and an early bath
Stick on an album by The Faces or The Who
And up early for work, into town via Clapham then Waterloo
When nothing too much mattered and the world seemed easy
RAF target on my back, nice shiny shoes, that's how you'll see me.

JJB
Satsih Verma Aug 2021
A place of glass eyes.
Fire in fire, flames on flames. The
question arises. An ocean will help?

Sometimes you come braless.
O moon you take a bath in the eyes
of innovated love.

The vespa, it stings badly.
Will you say something. O my beautiful
eyes, why only one eye weeps?
Judi Romaine Dec 2023
THE MEMORY OF STUFF

A brown tweed dress from Saks I saved months to buy.

A telephone operator toy set I begged my parents to get me for Christmas.

A note from my mom when I still lived at home with instructions on staying at the house alone while she worked.

A box of special Christmas cookies I made and sold for $5 back in 1961.

A rented Vespa in Italy, ******* my *** as we headed to Sorrento from Pisa.

A sailors hat worn when I was ten, one summer at the lake, when I rowed a boy around.



Do they have my feelings of fondness and become something more?

Do they wait to be used?

Do they remember longingly our relationships?

Are they happy to be remembered?

Do they sit waiting for one more jaunt into the world?

When we die, do they weep silently for us?
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2019
Mallow is high, built on a
hill overlooking the River
Blackwater, a tributary of
The Atlantic Ocean, it is a
liquid schizophrenic which
has the temperament of an
Italian on a Vespa before his
first shot of sugary LavAzza.

Circa 950 AD. an Irish Celt
deduced that every time he
built a hut near the edge of
this oscillating reservoir, he
developed hydrophobia.

His name was Willie Eaton,
a plaque to his wisdom can
be seen below the water line
under the arch of the bridge.

Those flooding's existed long
before Global Warming, so I
have no idea why in the name
of **** anyone is listening to

           Gretta Humbug.
Satsih Verma Mar 23
Encore, faith was
blind, written on the tongue
with a thorn. One awakes the other.

The mysterious pain
was mine, moon watch. The
vespa has a job to do.

The teacher reads the
road. Your step will bleed
unknowingly. Who tells the god?

— The End —