Read Poetry: Pasta and Parmigiana, by Al Glendinning

You may stand with your arms outstretched, as if a crucifix bathed in the glory and warmth of the Italian sun.

Barefoot, you walk upon the cobblestones that lead toward the milky road as you stride toward reward, where new lovers will soon become, as one.

 

Flushed with the colors in the haze of a European windswept morn. That is as sharp and shrilled, as a high-pitched whistle blow.

We all need to feed upon illusions that have a little imagination, to travel

the ravaged wastelands that create a matrix and allows small thoughts to   grow

 

from the devotion of jurisprudence and the dogma that can set minds free. A woman with diamond cut facets, means you can be what you want to be,

Not just an airbrushed image, for glamour, controlled by the council of stone.

The ages of love are like the summers that burn hot, so that single does not mean alone.

 

Just as Pasta and Parmigiana, just as the moon moves the ocean and tide. Sexiness and sensuality, is synchronized by both body and mind.

Mascara, red lipstick and perfumes are enhanced, by a décolletage, well exposed. Man’s eyes may be drawn to the neckline that is natural for Haute Couture clothes,

 

But as you wander through the hillsides and the valley in between,

You discover there’s a cultural landscape, of the likes that you’ve never seen That stands proud in celebration of the hunchback poet of Recanti town.

How much do you love me, is the question I ask now.

 

No Spectre from a past will ask, how you will remember me, my love.

There is no compromise or choice, to choose between the common coot and dove. Does a composer in the forest undergrowth, always score the tune you want to hear? Is the special day more than a memory that forever is sincere?

 

It’s nice to be loved. Not under suspicion, as the velvet darkness of evening falls.

To invigorate renaissance, so the glow of love reflects its light within the confines of the castle walls.

As you stand with your arms outstretched, and gaze up to the crucifix,

you will recall this evening prayers, when the sound of every church bell calls you

 

from the air, so fresh that the evening already feels just like a wild Italian celebration where one kiss is irreversible, once the beat of the aching heart has gone.

The love, La beauté du diable may one day, fade away

But you’ll enjoy a cappuccino, in the piazza, wave to friends and smile. At a cool Italian street   Café.

 

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About poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.
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