Thursday, August 19

A Poem for Thursday

We had a week in Florence in a mad guest house, where we had to make our own breakfast and sometimes the owner's as well. The lights were off in the evening as we think she didn't pay her bills. But the madness of it all left us with this daft romantic feeling for Florence. And a love for the narrow streets where we got lost.



On the fourth day
A star shone in the midnight sky
above the olive tree.
Red wine and pasta memories,
and I wept.

On the fourth day
We walked the via Proconsole.
An Italian Glaswegian
Kissed my hand
and called me precious,
and I wept

On the fourth day
We lay on crisp white sheets
In an Italian afternoon.
Lovers as always
Whispering memories
and I wept.

On the fourth day
We were lost in a maze
Of dark streets and broken containers.
And love found us
In a room with thread
and compassion
To sew us together.
And I wept.

On the fourth day
Giotto and Duccio painted
With pink and orange
purple and blue.
Covering over eight years
and healing memories.
And I wept.

Wednesday, August 18

poetry from the third generation.

This is a poem by my wonderful oldest grand daughter who goes under the name Severus. You can see her profile here.
I think that this poem would be a good one for the Poetry Bus this week. I hope that they accept it as it is.nt mine. you can find the poetry bus on Enchanted


Posted by Severus at Tuesday, August 17, 2010

I'm no where near perfect,

Of that there's no doubt.

I often get angry,

And occassionally I'll shout.

I'm not exactly skinny,

And my hair never goes right.

My voice is very tinny,

And I have issues with my height.

Perfect! That I'll never be!

I fall for guys who are no good,

And I turn it into fantasy.

I complain about the nieghbourhood.

I fall out with my friends,

And I argue with my sisters.

I make sure every rule bends,

And the sun gives me blisters.

I don't always listen to my parents,

And I'm sorry to say I make them stressed,

Then everything becomes tense,

And we all put our patience to the test.

My skin isn't flawless,

And my writing's very scrawly.

I can be quite gormless,

And I scream at anything crawly.

But maybe I am perfect.

As much as anyone can be.

Because I'm me completely!

And no one else will ever be,

Perfectly me!


Natasha said...

Love it Kate!

17 August 2010 22:47

Gerry Snape said...

This is wonderful poetry . Get it on the F.B.

18 August 2010 12:22

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