Darios Birthday
Today was Darios birthday.
He has been gone these three years.
But we will have a party,
and my Robbie will shed no tears.
We have made the dips,
cheaned up the yard.
The maid really did,
all that was hard.
So, I'm ready for fun,
and much Italian chatter.
I won't understand much,
but what does it matter?
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Regatta day
Regatta Day
My calves were sore,
then they're not,
because my arms
they went to pot.
Now my feet are
sore on top
I can not run
I sure can't hop.
There is a happy
noise I hear,
it is quite loud
it must be near.
I never thought
I'd meet the day
when accordions
call me out to play!
So put on socks
loosen my shoes
head out the door,
later I'll snooze!
My calves were sore,
then they're not,
because my arms
they went to pot.
Now my feet are
sore on top
I can not run
I sure can't hop.
There is a happy
noise I hear,
it is quite loud
it must be near.
I never thought
I'd meet the day
when accordions
call me out to play!
So put on socks
loosen my shoes
head out the door,
later I'll snooze!
My Burano
My Burano
Burano, Burano,
there's no better place.
I whiz past Murano,
to see your bright face.
Only an artist,
could paint as you do,
in red, pink and yellow,
and periwinkle blue.
Your colors, they call me,
from far, oh so far,
by vaporetto, and plane,
by train, and by car.
If I could paint just as simple,
as bright and as true,
I'd be a rich lady,
and come yearly to you!
Burano, Burano,
there's no better place.
I whiz past Murano,
to see your bright face.
Only an artist,
could paint as you do,
in red, pink and yellow,
and periwinkle blue.
Your colors, they call me,
from far, oh so far,
by vaporetto, and plane,
by train, and by car.
If I could paint just as simple,
as bright and as true,
I'd be a rich lady,
and come yearly to you!
Milan
Milan
Puffy eyes, unblown hair,
wear the same clothes everywhere.
Wake up to the noisy street,
bug bites on your sandaled feet.
It makes my ride on "twenty-five"
not such a chore. I'm more alive.
Wake up by four, be working by six.
Put on a smile; I've toast to fix.
Bus at three, with a sure knee
and in the door by quarter to four.
But when you've gone from there to here,
to there, to here, to there,
your more content when your at home,
and in your old pink chair.
YOu think about the ladies, on the bench in Levanto.
You wonder how much laundry they did fore they could go.
You think of all your hostel friends, from Paris to Milan,
and wonder if their traveling with all the same clothes on.
They're back at work in their own town,
a little more content,
Remembering all the things they saw,
and wonderful places they went.
Puffy eyes, unblown hair,
wear the same clothes everywhere.
Wake up to the noisy street,
bug bites on your sandaled feet.
It makes my ride on "twenty-five"
not such a chore. I'm more alive.
Wake up by four, be working by six.
Put on a smile; I've toast to fix.
Bus at three, with a sure knee
and in the door by quarter to four.
But when you've gone from there to here,
to there, to here, to there,
your more content when your at home,
and in your old pink chair.
YOu think about the ladies, on the bench in Levanto.
You wonder how much laundry they did fore they could go.
You think of all your hostel friends, from Paris to Milan,
and wonder if their traveling with all the same clothes on.
They're back at work in their own town,
a little more content,
Remembering all the things they saw,
and wonderful places they went.
The Fisherman of Monterosso
The Fisherman of Monterosso
At six he ventures out,
"ciaos" his 80 year old dear,
with his rod and bucket,
he's off to Monterosso pier.
Looks across to the village,
so wonderfully alone,
this is the time of morning,
Monterosso is his own.
(another very old guy comes slowly out to the pier to meet my fisherman)
Old Giuseppe shuffles out,
to be with his good friend.
They stand, the two, and talk of fish,
and of the nets they'll mend.
Giuseppe stops to talk to me,
with four good teeth inside.
He is the sanguine of the group,
his smile, he smiles wide.
He decides it is a poem I write,
so he tells a poema too.
He quotes it clear and loud and strong,
in Italian, it is true.
So full of big arm gestures,
with a glimmer in his eye,
He tells of old time Monterosso,
of many days gone by.
(Giuseppe slowly walks away)
Slowly, oh so slowly,
my fisherman warms up.
He realized I was staying,
so he better just give up.
So we sat and watched the wiggle,
at the end his fishing line.
He would tell me his word
And I would tell him mine.
We cheered as much as he would cheer,
with every fish he caught.
I took it's photo, and he would grin,
before squirming in the pot.
So there's my special morning,
before I catch the train.
My fisherman, I'll miss you,
but I'll be back again!
At six he ventures out,
"ciaos" his 80 year old dear,
with his rod and bucket,
he's off to Monterosso pier.
Looks across to the village,
so wonderfully alone,
this is the time of morning,
Monterosso is his own.
(another very old guy comes slowly out to the pier to meet my fisherman)
Old Giuseppe shuffles out,
to be with his good friend.
They stand, the two, and talk of fish,
and of the nets they'll mend.
Giuseppe stops to talk to me,
with four good teeth inside.
He is the sanguine of the group,
his smile, he smiles wide.
He decides it is a poem I write,
so he tells a poema too.
He quotes it clear and loud and strong,
in Italian, it is true.
So full of big arm gestures,
with a glimmer in his eye,
He tells of old time Monterosso,
of many days gone by.
(Giuseppe slowly walks away)
Slowly, oh so slowly,
my fisherman warms up.
He realized I was staying,
so he better just give up.
So we sat and watched the wiggle,
at the end his fishing line.
He would tell me his word
And I would tell him mine.
We cheered as much as he would cheer,
with every fish he caught.
I took it's photo, and he would grin,
before squirming in the pot.
So there's my special morning,
before I catch the train.
My fisherman, I'll miss you,
but I'll be back again!
Day One Poem
day one poem
The day has come
the time is here.
I will be far
but have no fear.
I will be safe
oh it is true,
and I will write
each day to you.
If you could see
my silly grin,
from ear to ear
from eye to chin.
Oh you would want
to hop the plane,
the bus, the bike,
or hop the train.
Sit tight my friend.
enjoy the ride,
my joys, my sorrows,
I will not hide.
So if I die
fore I return,
don't bury me,
my body burn.
The day has come
the time is here.
I will be far
but have no fear.
I will be safe
oh it is true,
and I will write
each day to you.
If you could see
my silly grin,
from ear to ear
from eye to chin.
Oh you would want
to hop the plane,
the bus, the bike,
or hop the train.
Sit tight my friend.
enjoy the ride,
my joys, my sorrows,
I will not hide.
So if I die
fore I return,
don't bury me,
my body burn.
Upcycled blanket!
Oh what fun, oh what a delight, to crawl under a blanket I made tonight!
This is actually a new/old living room couch blanket I made from bits of old fabric. You may see a bit of a purse you have, or some of a tablecloth, or the back is just an old faded curtain from a garage sale. It is amazing what comfort there is in creating even the most basic of things!
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