Tag: Italy

Memoir, Poetry, reflection

Maps, a poem from Simply Put, a collection

Arlene
Image by ???? Mabel Amber, who will one day from Pixabay 

MAPS AS PROOF-arlene s bice©

Every now and then

I’ll sit on the floor after dragging down

the pile of maps folded on my bookshelf.

These are the rainy-afternoons-do-you-remember-when-maps.

I don’t buy souvenirs

but I save my maps, some worn others not

emoting moments, some seeking a thing not found

others of finding surprises-quite-unexpected-but-joyfully-held.

Maps are my proof.

I’ve stepped out of the mold, leaving behind

my mother’s daughter; creating my own  true self

becoming a-woman-who-loves-and-saves-her-maps.

And I’ll continue

to travel on roads new to me, soaking in

the atmosphere of another’s world, seeing it differently

then I will be making a deposit-in-the-bank-of-memories-for-a-rainy-day.

Poetry, reflection, travel

A Poem I Wrote Many Years Ago About Italy

Arlene

Image by Peter H from Pixabay 

(Inspired by Dun Aengus by David Whyte)

(Publ. in Life & Labyrinth and Simply Put)

ITALY –© arlene s bice

And when you go,

try to go before the season

when tourists fill every place.

They take the soul of place away.

See Italy as its people have,

from centuries ago to the present.

Join them with colorful pottery pitchers

of wine on each table alongside baskets of

bread yet warm, with the scent of hot oven-baking

still floating from the kitchen to your table to your nose

to whet your appetite.

Walk the narrow cobbled streets

where the clatter of horses’ hooves fill

your ears even though that time is a long way

passed. Throw open a casement window in your

castle bedroom to sweep your eyes over clay tiled

roofs to the mountains in the distance. Mountains that

pierce clouds as you do, driving down the mountain, the

road carrying you through the cloud slowly that it lays

on your shoulders, imbeds itself into your pores, mouth

and your brain.

Soak in sounds of the squeeze-box;

a strolling soprano sings with all his being

as you stroll along the canals of Venice holding

hands most sensuously not ignoring strangers, but

saving them for the trattoria, where everyone shares a

moment or announced event; they will cheer your good news.

Drink in the crisp, clear water

spouting out of the mountain, like

champagne surging from a wedding fountain.

Place a small offering in the roadside box with the

Madonna, even though you aren’t Catholic, never will

be & don’t believe that stuff. Do it anyway, be Italian

while you are here.

Drive along the Costera Azura

not falling off the mountain into the

azure blue water like you expect to do

at the next sharp turn where you meet a bus

coming the other way. Italians have been driving

this road for centuries and do fall off crashing onto the

rocks below, but you won’t. You have too much to take

home to hold onto when there are only memories to make

you smile with inner glow; you once lived with a joyful heart in Italy.  

Poetry

Found in Life & Labyrinth

Arlene

Image

Italy

(Inspired by Dun Aengus by David Whyte)

And when you go, try to go before the ‘season’

when tourists fill every place. They take the soul of

place away.

See Italy as its people have, from

centuries ago to the present. Join them with

colorful pottery pitchers of wine on each table alongside

baskets of bread yet warm, with the scent of hot oven-baking

still floating out from the kitchen to your table to your nose to whet

your appetite.

 Walk the narrow cobbled streets

where the clatter of horses’ hooves fill

your ears even though that time is a long way

passed. Throw open the casement window in your

castle bedroom to sweep your eyes over the clay tiled

roofs to the mountains in the distance. The mountains that

pierce the clouds as you do, driving down the mountain, the

road carrying you through the cloud slowly so the experience lays

on your shoulders and imbeds itself into your pores and your mouth and

your brain.

 Soak in sounds of the squeeze-box;

a strolling soprano sings with all his being

as you stroll along the canals of Venice holding

hands most sensuously not ignoring strangers, but

saving them for the trattoria, where everyone shares a

moment or an announced event and they will cheer your

good news.

 Drink in the crisp, clear water

spouting out of the mountain, like

champagne surging from a wedding fountain.

Place a small offering in the roadside box with the

Madonna on it, even though you aren’t Catholic, never will be

and don’t believe in all that stuff. Do it anyway. Be Italian while

you’re here.

 Drive along the Costera Azura

not falling off the mountain into the

azure blue water like you expect to do

at the next sharp turn where you meet a bus

coming the other way. Italians have been driving

this road for centuries and do fall off crashing onto the

rocks below, but you won’t. You’ll have too much to take

home and to hold onto when there are only memories to make

you smile with that inner glow that you once lived with a joyful heart

in Italy.   Arlene S. Bice, © 2008