Howls the Wolf I

Lone gray wolf, within spread mist,
a ghostly white of bones in midden,
spirits of woods, the howl 's amidst,
a ghost negation of a life forbidden.

His scream arises drawstring in dark,
timber crusader, unlighted instinct,
subdued urge to spill lives and mark,
ground traces where victims extinct.

Howls the wolf, night ebon of virtue,
absolute ecstasy of virtuoso chordal,
ruthless woods laws coexist in battue,
solitude is transformed to red ordeal.

Howls the wolf, merit call to heaven,
spirits of woods, the blare 's amidst,
accept his prayer to moon as deaden
hunt 's a forfeit into woods to inexist.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Poems

Poems resemble little strains
of our childhood's distant past,
care to cry and smile with us,
when we feel them in the rain.

Poems are like little soldiers
ascending to a mountain high,
singing a longing ode to nigh,
of what our silences express.

Poems hurt your hands in cold,
as north winds blow in Winter,
inside to commence and linger,
when old acquaintances unfold.

When loved forms annunciate,
in verses that were kept pure,
and pictures our loves ensure,
in misty solitudes necessitate.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Damaged Staunch

A route you 'll live close to far - equinox doldrum;
complete it was, some flaws in, tangible to revive
moments when my coastal ports stare of me, upon
my knots link to northern parallels, light of dawn,
(how could you be with me upon, a ghostly dawn?)

My dimmer of a Southern Cross, a damaged staunch;
imperious, an ideal route, moorings within stars,
we pilot in strange ports, Sete Cari, Bacau, Aden
Horizon of misty cutter fog, we to repair a rudder
(a blow of eery, ghostly wind, danger of half-tides)

Rains, embraced adjoining, you of a picture still,
my flag's domain persecutes, mail, my post arrives,
absently you - yet absolute, as all my life's tinder,
A gift of your trajectory, an odd caress to abide,
(shallows hide dangers, tidal washed rock's side..)

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Aconital Domain

Domain of a free man, the stars
remains of still deserted bars
from his imprisonment, he flies
an exaltation of soul, to skies.

a self made nomad to engrave
on his intellect, his astral wave
go forth four years, to Centauri,
nomad solitude a bluish worry..

Domain of a quill gun, a gild
Persephone's call, a rose field
Aconital expiation, another seven
reasons to immigrate to heaven.

Evocative omen and Demesne
facing of reality to forbearance,
fiddle above chaos in air fixed
a vow of my solitude and mist.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Nightingale bird

Darkness I welcome on distant soil
my routes unfold lonely and a compass
to worlds I strive alone will recall
passages outlined on an oil canvas,

of worlds no one ever visited to tell
if your responses came way from there
my bids have sunk in a cypress well
of passed stereotypes and antique ether.

I remember how we sat on the stairs
of that old house we played when kids
I passed by to recall, and to stare,
to our primal innocence and first kiss.

You loved me back then, in our Cosmos
where all was written by infinity's quill
my eyes glanced at the well, our dromos
was for one walker to whistle tranquil,

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Bull Horn Grip

Eagle like, descends the road,
deep red wine potion, brusque,
as hidden eyes reckon in dusk
of this man to stare and bode.

Hours so, consent to darkness;
starry skies salute his walking,
tis maids of long mane talking,
about a raw prowess to egress.

In the tavern, at the dockside,
pipers play a monotonous mode,
destinies weave, deathly abode,
in deep spaces of brines abide.

A drink is life, glass of grog,
players render the pipes loud,
dim stars blink and a low cloud,
covers the shore in shroud fog.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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I Breathe Her Name

One day she told me that inside me,
North winds abide - and my secrets,
notes of dawn light are and quartets,
to sing again amid black spruce trees.

She came to stand within a faint light,
an apparition brilliant of school years,
when her raven mane waved in piers,
and winds sweeping above that bight.

It was our entreaty that hung in air,
I vanished outside shadows, not nigh,
it was her soul to send me the outcry,
and my interpretation of her despair.

Before I knew, her call was inscribed,
in my lines and beyond, into my voice,
herald of solitude twining that choice,
to stay in soul, tear-sting an' imbibed.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The maiden

Ye all recall beknighted Keith Ashley
of Capadokia, a land known widely
for maids that chords delicately play,
while fellows duel with lances, idly.

Besought was the claim by noble Keith,
to search in foreign lands for grace;
added poetic ways, for a beloved lithe
maiden henceforth, her to embrace!

The maiden was imprisoned in a Castle,
by the Dragon of the County of Pudh,
a dark Knight with a tendency to hassle,
blond Braids were anent to shed blood.

The two mounted knights boldly tilted,
against each other with blunted lances,
noble Keith gallops, but he was jilted,
when at the lance lengths she glances.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Blance, where were you...?

Blance, where were you when I was still alive?
come just to think of it, life was a game;
Recall we were racing on Storrow Drive.

Black vanishing plummet, Oettinger strive
race on marginal speed is not to blame
Blance where were you when I was still alive?

Wolf-colder bite November frost to skive;
Vain was this agon for, distance to tame;
Recall we were racing on Storrow Drive.

Breathless our life was at twenty-five,
live dangerous, on road, afore to aim,
Blance where were you when I was still alive?

Selected Nymph, one promise to derive;
She was a softer misty form, my dame;
Recall we were racing on Storrow Drive.

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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You wore this crown of thorns

Form of this night, approaches in narrow aisles
My impiety upon your valor, my tuning falsity
of a brass bugle, a sound coarse, for miles
A foolishness! I welcome my solitude's asperity.

Do I have some time? Maybe of this, or of another
bright celebration, of a four dimensional space
a costume any customer of odds will wear in order,
my insight on any defined routes to only trace.

Do I have some varnish? To use upon my buttons
of nautilus blue jacket as to exit, a visitor of bars
or soul betrayal; A parallelism to faded blossoms
my old friends wear, an emblem of internal scars.

Can I forget my crimson? My wound, my odd incision
of my swaying abolished soul, a thorn maybe to blunt
as if my quill instates an idol on foolish mission?
As if you wore this crown of thorns, of my stand?

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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