The Day

 

This poem was written for dVerse Poets Pub. We were asked to write a poem in a different language so I chose Italian because it is my heritage and I love the language. I wrote a short love poem because it happens to be our 34th wedding anniversary today. To me the poem sounds very romantic in Italian and corny in English. Funny how it can sound so different.

La giornata è stata piena di promesse.
I ricordi in corso,
nuove avventure in programma.
La luna splendeva.

Tu mi hai amato
come nessun altro –
ancora la luna splende.

———————————–

The day was full of promises.
Memories were made,
new adventures planned.
The moon shone.

You have loved me
like no other –
still the moon shines.

Copyright © 20th January 2013 Norma Martiri

Playtime Echoes

Flickr Image by M. Ribeiro

Flickr Image by M. Ribeiro

I drove past a playground the other day and was saddened as I noticed that there were no children playing. It was a beautiful day and there was not a child in sight, not even on a bike. It may have been the timing but it made me think of the contrast of my childhood. The first part of this poem are some of my wonderful childhood memories. I don’t really believe the last line of my poem but I do worry about future generations.

Heavy wooden swings
sailed above trampled dirt,
and thick metal chains twisted into spirally thrills.
Long silver slides latched on to
Jack and the Bean Stalk ladders
while fearless children climbed to castles in the air.
Cold grey jungle gyms amused monkey kids.
There we viewed our world upside down
and entertained kaleidoscope dreams.
Dragsters wore streamers and colourful flags
as pegged cardboard roared above road noise.
Big brothers revelled in building impressive billy carts
from scraps he’d collected at the local dump
while little ones watched on in anticipation.
On a good day he’d let you drive his masterwork down the hill
with its wobbly wheels and Fred Flintstone brakes.
Tonka trucks dug up back yards
and Matchbox cars drove on dirt roads made by small hands
as neighbourhood kids joined in.
Long ropes skipped over chants and rhymes
as swift feet mastered hot pepper rhythms.
Hopscotch and stones,
broken bones,
skinned knees.
Cops caught dirty robbers
with wooden guns.
What’s the time Mr Wolf
and what did Simon say when
Barbie and Ken threw hip parties
on the latest cardboard furniture?
Miniature houses with black and white chequered tiles
accommodated miniature dolls.
Baby dolls slept quietly in pretty cradles
as mothers drank sugared water
in tiny pink floral China tea sets.
Home-made mud cakes were a delectable treat
that fed innocent fantasies.
Board games ruled and property overlords were born.
Twisted manoeuvres sent everyone reeling
until we nearly peed our pants.
A ball and a wall entertained a child,
and the adventures of The Secret Seven
occupied young minds on a rainy day.
Bliss.

Lonely swings sway
in the quiet breeze,
like an apocalypse has changed the world.
Unsunned kids sprawl on unmade beds
experiencing life through a screen;
sharing a soulless future.

Copyright © January 2013 Norma Martiri

Linked to OpenLinkNight – Week 78 at dVerse Poets Pub

dragster bike

I loved my dragster bike

Sounds of Summer

Image

Flickr Image by cubagallery

Animated crickets sing away silence;
kookaburras laugh at the day.
Lorikeets whip round in wondrous brilliance
screeching, announcing dusk.
A cool breeze rustles through full-leaved bushes
while wind chimes clang tinny tunes.
Workers hurry home booming and hooning
like an orchestra producing a cacophony.
The storm bird is out coo-eeing again –
geez I wish it would rain.
Hungry mosquitos buzz about
intent on causing pain.
Steaks stop sizzling – just in time.
Dinner’s on the table.

Copyright © December 2012 Norma Martiri

Form: Free Verse

Shared with dVerse Poets Pub
 Oz Poetic Society 
Weekly Poem, 24th February 2013

The Journey

Image

The world belonged to him at night.
The moon was his lantern,
the stars his friends.
He was at home here.
He looked upon his kingdom.
Wayside fires were his altars,
smoke, incense to his gods.
He journeyed not knowing why.
He knew no reason for not journeying.
His vague imaginings swung along
until he saw the distant hill.

Copyright © November 2012 Norma Martiri

Form: Erasure Poem

Written for dVerse Poets Pub – Meeting the Bar: Erasure Poetry
Taken from Sundow Slim by Henry Hubert Knibbs

The Old Hag

The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli (1781)

The old hag rests upon my breast,
malevolence sent on a quest.
To claim souls in the twilight hour,
demonic beast amassing power.

My muffled pleas lost in the fray,
limbs paralysed there where I lay.
Possessing souls throughout the night,
she won’t take mine without a fight.

New valour pushes fear away,
and silently bids calm to stay.
My twitching limbs regain control,
tonight I’m keeping my own soul.

As glowing eyes glare back at me,
she sears me in her memory.
Reviling as she takes up flight,
surceasing for another night.

Copyright © October 2012 Norma Martiri

Form: Quatrain

Written for the Poeticaphobia prompt at dVerse Poets Pub

Sleep paralysis was once believed to be demonic being described as the Old Hag terrifying victims .

White Whispers

Summer Night by Albert Bloch 1913

Streams
of white whispers
swirl about.
Listen.
Listen to the night
as waves of pure light
bathe the shadows of the day.
She calls my name,
tempts me
with lazy days
and eternal warmth.
Look.
Look at her grace
as she roams about
in glorious garb,
extending her hand.
Reaching out.
Reaching out,
to a world lost in its mire.

Copyright © 28/09/12 Norma Martiri

Form: Abstract

Shared with dVerse Poets Pub

This poem was inspired by the painting above, “Summer Nights” by Albert Bloch 1913
I’m not sure what this painting represents but this is what I saw.
I was too late to add it to a prompt I found as it had expired, but I wrote it anyway.

The Perfect Poet Award – Week 74

Thank you Thursday Poets Rally for The Perfect Poet Award
I nominate insanebloom for the next award.


Crimson Passion

Flickr Image by Randy Robertson

Crimson orbs –
flames of passion
erupt in
restless rushes,
as blue skies
spin around this
brazen display of colour.

Copyright © May 2012 Norma Martiri

Form: Whitney – created by Betty Ann Whitney, this seven-line verse based on Japanese patterns contains 3, 4, 3, 4, 3, 4, 7 syllables respectively.

Shared with dVerse Poets: Open Link Night