Reads: 155  | Likes: 8  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 13, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 13, 2018



It’s said that Venice is Italia’s freckles,

Atop the Water’s complexion.

One hundred eighteen islands settled,

Hardly imperfections.


That Pangea’s blossom cast seeds free,

From which the city blooms.

And from the city came Vivaldi,

And Four Seasons pursued:


Spring sang blossoms across the trees,

Embraced by Summer’s rain.

Plucked at the whim of Autumn’s breeze,

And in Winter, none remained.


But long before Canals flowed with rhythm,

At violins’ command,

The Water flickered, a shining prism,

As revolution began.


A rebirth of art and music and thought,

A shedding of the past.

Mind flooding like the Currents soft,

Washing all in its path.


The movement a breeze through Italia’s hair,

Uncovering Her eyes.

A drop of life upon her tongue,

An intoxicating wine.


Buildings risen, canvas wet,

And pages bleeding black.

Man and God’s first sung duet,

On Renaissance’s track.


Awoken again at Vivaldi’s hand,

Dancing among the staves,

A romance ignited deep within man,

Still afire to this day.


For man knew not of his thirst on land,

Until drunken at Earth’s waves.

© Copyright 2019 R.J. Tedders. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: