With candles burning, *

With candles burning,
Molten wax by the sides of them,
Coming down , hot, liquid soft,
And like a piece of eternal art,
Holding You, getting ready
For a dance, before wearing night cap,

How one finds, same carvings ,
Same lines, running same,
Even after so many galaxies apart
As we have made a decide,
To hold us, our tides,

So that we can always remain
That 'little distance away',
For us to "stroll", in the air,
ethereal as we truly are,

But unwittingly, see,
How on canvas of the sky,
We meet, greet, dance with joy,
Finding our days and knights.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting, as attached. Courtesy: Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Porta Alba, as if, *

There, there, how You i find,
Right at that alley,
Our stay, brief,
You Isabel, i,
And Cicero,
And Donya,

How ,wonderful had that life been!
You, me, all in One Big Wide Screen,
Loving us, our Quest, our findings matchin'

Your rethinking , of changing a bit,
Your style, your dresses, your happy happy faces,
Your love for your brother, Cicero,
And for Donya, neopolitan so,

Pizzeria , small and big ovens,
Lain side by side, smelling wheatish,
Maize , corns,
All coming to us,

And Samir,
He was there too,
A bit apart true,
But in his looking at
You,

And me,
Geosyncing all,

The Statue of Dante Alighieri,
Right there, at the circle,
In the middle,
As if standing like His Epic,
Guarding Beauty Thine,
Mine, Cicero's ,Donya's,
All, who came there,
Early morns,
To sit on the benches,
By those piccolos,

Ain't it lovely
Finding so much of You,
Coming back to me,
Through painted dreams,
Dream like reverie,
Drenching me,
Joie de vivre,
Sweet, embracing us,

O how i wander
By thy dreams,
Of my created Girl,
My writes,

How in painted forms,
Thou make a rerun.

(*Note: upon a painting , under the aegis of a series titled "Happy Art", courtesy : Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni; 

" la radice" is actually , a short novella written By Me, on varied things , 

#noadvertthis)

A spring summer afternoon *

Tea, being our favourite liquor,
Her and mine, oft, at spring summer afternoons
Will i find her, lavish , sprawling , like a canvas,
Wearing a hat, bonnet, to save her beauteous face,
From tans, and also to keep in order,
Her flowing cascading hair,
Sitting on a chair,
In our garden,
Holding her cup ,
Of tea, aromatic,
Darjeeling,

But perhaps
Being called by some,
Her children,
(And mine too, as i tend to Imagine,
So love laden, ),
Looking a way,

And her face,
Like a side profile,
In Innocence wrapped
And painted,
(Like a Victorine,
Perhaps,
Whom once Giorgione
Painted as Dresden Venus,
Beauty Perfect,
Symmetrical, such, )
Before my eyes
How e~merge,

And i, the forever rivery waters,
Flowing flowing, not stopping,
Get into ,again, finding Her,
In the skies of ours,
So limitlessly Vast,

She appears like Angelica true,
In her works and her leisure too,
With her cup of tea,
Bonneted thus,
spring summer afternoons
Through her as gently pass,

I just look at her,
Till i feel, I am no longer in me,
Till i feel, I have gotten to the Lea,
Of our wonderous life, our merriment,
Our never ending poesy, paintings and
Few thousand years of Peaceful Solitude.

(*Note: upon a painting , done by Angelica Privalihin, courtesy: Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Come la amore, come to the Bar,*

Come, la amore,
Isabel mine,
Now that the eve has dropped
Upon us, so quite, so soft,
And now that i can see,
You art there,
Catching the song,
The tune of our Love, long,
Come, Isabel, such an eve,
So musical, so romantic,
Like Your red red lips,
Calmed, be us,
You in white dancing for us,

I would perhaps,
Would just be somewhere near,
The Guitarist whence hath plucked the string, fair,
Stringed we Canst stop not, Canst sing not,

Cause Thou hath to me , how hath brought,
Poesy, paints, blossoms, wrought
In our Deepest love, emblematic,
Our whitest Truth, so, so poetic,

Come , Mon dio, come like that flicker of Hope,
Whence You hath so originally widened our scope,
To see, to feel, every tune that spread,
Through the ether, ethereal we ,have by toils bred,

Canst you not hear the song
That Guitarist who had been strumming for long,
The song like an Universal One,
Filled with only our Love so entwined,

Come, Isabel, shake a leg,
Come, diva, make for me a peg,
A small one, filled with redness,
Straight, from your red pout, blessed,
By Mother Thine, who hath reared you with care,
Come, Isabel, don't you be scared,
For I am, here, only to adore you,
For I am, here, to be your beau.

(*Note: upon a painting, loosely based, done by a Great Painter humanitarian such, Richard S. Johnson, courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista, from 'Happy Art Series'.)

Taking a walk down the avenue, drenched,

You must have taken a walk
As you always do,
Keeping our Love in you,
Through that avenue,
Come what may,

At the breaking of the morn
Catching leaves strewn on you
Fallen by the moist watery breeze,
You must have taken the avenue,

Your head hooded by the cape,
Watery drops running down your nape,
You walking leaves at your feet,
You walking to find a painted scape,

In our city, Napoli, is it not?
Where we had lived and groomed all our thoughts
Our finding Poems, paintings, risings and sleep,
Our making our Love even more deep,

The sea by the villa, must have coming down
To sweep the street and also the town,
Whispering into your ears some songs
Of treading through the road side and long.

(*Note: on a painting done by an Italian painter and artist, courtesy Musica Pittura e Dintorni)