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.

In poems words become drops,
a dispersed mizzle in October,
dormant are in a closed folder,
as we recite them on sea docks.

There with ocean foams explode,
carrying our childhood's dreams,
as all winds recite them to brims,
and to our wraiths that fly to bode.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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