Of The Day
|Daily Poem Index|
He worked until his hands bled,
staining the marble dust on the floor.
He worked in his shop in the alley
Just outside his chamber door.
For his passion was his labor,
And his labor was his life.
If his time would just allow him,
he would carve his angel wife.
She was gone for thirty years now,
but she never left his mind.
She was gone but he was certain
In the marble her he'd find.
As the final chips cascaded,
like her hair fell on his skin,
He had realized his dream;
To hold her hand just once again.
The Colors of the World
The world has land and sky
The ground green and the water blue
The sky, light as the clouds in it
With the reds and oranges of the deserts
The blues and greens of forests
The sun rises and sets with beautiful hues
The colors of the world for all
The white snow of the cold north with
Light glinting off the flakes that fall
The worlds a prism that splits the light
Across the land and sky with red
Orange, yellow and green
Blues, indigos and violets
The colors in between and blurred by
The morning mist, the fog before a storm
The storms of dust and sand
All the colors for the world to see
Into The Past
From my open window, the sounds-
raindrops bouncing off the wooden shutters,
murmurings of passersby beneath my window
mix with the noises and smells from the shops below,
drifting through the winding caverns,
of the narrow cobblestone streets.
The accumulated raindrops flow
like a raging torrent through the rooftop gutters.
Two scraping umbrellas
passing in the same space
along the narrow walkway.
Laying in my bed, absorbing-
the piercing cries of babies,
church bells chiming out the hour,
barking dogs, screeching cats,
the loud, very loud, lyrical Italian,
at times romantic and enticing,
spoken in tones of conversation, yet
to the untrained ear,
sounding like cries of desperation
in the final throes of life.
The smells, oh god the smells-
the breezes off the Ligurian Sea carrying
onion and garlic sauteing,
sausages, pork, and lamb gently frying,
the open air fish market around the corner,
all hanging in the air,
creating an invisible cloud
shrouding 2500 years of existence.
Monterosso, isolated when the rains come,
the seas roughen, the ferrys rock at their dock,
the cobblestone glazed over as if iced.
Trains halt the exodus to Milan, Florence, Venice-
trapped in paradise-
dampened by the intermittent rains,
overpowered by the quaintness and charm
of a simpler life.
by Linda Marshall
our youth flees as the seasons do;
as the leaves fall from the trees
so too we age
shards of summer remain,
but the mushy jetsam
is trodden underfoot, unnoticed
all the rich plumage of summer
abandoned on the sodden earth,
a child’s now unwanted toy
the branches of trees
bend in the inclement wind
and try to resist his mating cries
they wait in their turn
for the coming time when the wind will shake
like a cocktail from the sky the first snowflake
the rocks, the little stream
flowing through the wood
will be decked out in frost and crystals of ice
summer is gaudy, a fashion parade
of garish colour;
autumn is sober, burnishing life in russet and brown
when the light around fades
the sky sheds its colour,
trees become shadows in the wood
it is not yet the barrenness of winter
but the mellow ripeness of too rich fruit
that autumn brings
so we embrace you, autumn;
promise that though we too perish and change
we will return, endure