Celebration day

Celebration day

The sea birds sat upon the wharf,
our dusky friends have been the shades
and the transmittance of our days,
is floating on the ocean surf.

How beautifully words gather
in solitude to build her form,
rose petals wreath inside the storm,
- was I her soul's ideal lover?

As soon as bells of Sundays ring
decode designs on ancient loom,
what students in their course assume,
geometry on blackboard clings.

How Oxford blue the harbor is,
befogged the town's  horizon hides,
fair constellation - unknown brides,
Athena's blest, my soul's aegis?

The sea birds sat upon the moors,
and waves explode to windward foams,
the tiding in my glancing roams,
meanwhile withdraws to verse detours.

Along the aural sceptre of morn,
(Soft and inspiring silence is!) ,
across the exploding water's bliss,
as soon as windy oaths are sworn...

... maybe if we reasoned with gods,
they'd recreate our school years' play,
revive our celebration day,
on peaks where versifying molds.

And if we smiled at the wharf's sorrow,
wraiths shall return and join in mists,
amid new rhymes and palms kissed,
our celebration of tomorrow.

© 2013/01/22 G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserve
(Iambic tetrameter)

The sea-waves touch

The sea-waves touch

The sea-waves touch your open palms,
along the shore, the waters lead
when stormy sea, henceforth, becalms
and tide engulfs what skies forbid.

When solemn eyes their oaths avow
and roses beckon on your dream,
reach out and find his drifting prow
aboard the trip's perpetual stream.

Cause thoughts, like boats, contrive amiss;
for those who lived in old realms,
eternal love's confession is,
the touch of sea, upon the palms.

Perchance the mistral glances pledge
as drifting made the skylines' edge.

2013/12/19
© Georgios Venetopoulos All rights reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)

Bergamot

Bergamot

The ridge, beyond, outlined his scope,
the Elysian fields, in distance, graphed,
the mizzle fell - perchance she asked
if one could rise beyond the slopes.

A climber walked upon the ridge,
where nothing was but flimsy clouds,
a bergamot and mindful doubts
have passed across the timely bridge.

The climber saw the clouds disperse,
in air the town was hung, and Halls
invited only drifted souls
- defined his effigy and verse.

Amid the dancers, courtly laced,
a graceful Princess smiled at him,
the bergamot was there to hint
unrealness is always braced.

Beyond the ridge the Angels roamed
(or were the clouds that turned to rain?)
the bergamot sang a refrain,
upon the peaks where spirits domed.

('The climber flies above the ridge,
the climber laughs while dancers bow,
the rainy waltz transmitting glow,
becomes the Princess on the bridge.')

Unspoken was she and the crags,
returned the bergamot's refrain;
Oh, her beatitude's soft rain,
washed down the slopes the verse he sang.

 © 12/12/2012 G. Venetopoulos All rights reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)

woods of evergreen

He knows the dance of lines at night,
 and their expanding, wayward trip
the perils and the clipons grip.

Convergent margins still unite
 where once per life, lines sternly meet
to make the skylines incomplete.

The scenes recite and years invite,
 abstruse the range, lift and share
the precognitions blue affair.

His mind abides the beaming light
 as thrust draws close the distant knots
and his horizons linking thoughts.

Where braves their destiny incite
 as lines embellish this decor,
where scenes return to years before.

Defiantly his words indite,
 what his third destiny perfects,
trajectories of skyward wrecks.

Where braves amid the mists ignite
 their speeding dreams of years eighteen
and turn to woods of evergreen.

© G. Venetopoulos 12-23-2013, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)

The Lords

The horses gallop in the mists,
transporting messages of war,
the trumpets echo o'er the hills,
and innocent to Gods implore.

Behind the wall's notches the Lords,
stare at the fires in the dark,
the stallions, impatient, snort
meanwhile non-combatants depart.

From mountain-tall descends the brave,
adjudging wrought his double axe,
he sends the enemies to grave,
barbarians to mortal stacks.

Along with him invades the force
of soldiers killed and bridal maids,
they sway the swords without remorse
to massacre the drove by blade.

Behind the wall's notches the Lords,
hark to the galloping of hoofs,
in armor wrought invade the hordes
inside the smoke of burning roofs.

© 2016-12-09 G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)

brassy tones

I shall remember you, she said,
cause roses spread their shades of red,
threads twined and weav'd on canvas grid.

The leaves turn flavescent, she said,
because the springtime garlands fade,
adornment hung on lonely door.

Her figure blended in the mist
in thought became a bride unkissed,
the mizzle droplets shine on road.

In air descends her misty veil
devoid the streets her scent inhale,
marquee of jazz is his abode.

The cadence of his heart - her grace,
reflecting light upon railways,
her glancing stays on nightly fields.

His brassy tones in rain embraced
and wet his fingertips outraced
her lines of face - caressed eye lids.

Arrows of thoughts conduct his quill,
destined to leave, alone and still,
the cloudy hues color the shore.

The Fall defines his quest and role,
his trumpet plays its nightly toll,
recalls in dark, her kissing mead.

2013 © Georgios Venetopoulos All rights reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)

Sockspeare, Thou!

Sockspeare, Thou!

Tonight I sensed the arts' demise
and thought of thine indecent writ
which could be used to kill the flies
that buzz above thy perfumed feet.

To liberate what's kept inside
thou must allow'st thyself to dart
where inspiration, poisoned, died
cause of thy mindless abstract art.

But this is wrong! The muses went
(because thine odored feet emit
condensed that deathly worn socks scent),
outside to breathe! Lickety split!

Thy mind, surprisingly, expressed
what could be taken for die-verse
tormented nostrils were suppressed
their agonized intake was terse.

Thy fans, inhaling the extrait
those well worn socks let loose with pride,
decided to command in verse
what should be buried cause it died.

They called it 'poem' but was known
that flies became, somehow, extinct,
bystanders ran to wear cologne,
thy Sockspeare theme was, thus, succinct.

Those blackened garments, worn around,
with plastic sneakers, bought on sale,
became the cause the fish have drowned
and deathly scents were to curtail.

Please tell us why thy socks perfumes
became the symbol of foot-prose
dug up feet-ology exhumes
what should be listed to dispose.

© G. Venetopoulos,10-13-2013, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)