Lorenzo Costigliolo

Lorenzo Costigliolo Poems

, , , and I love you
for what I don’t see of you
your voice through written word
though not a syllable spoken, heard

As lifeblood drains and dries in aged veins,
as breaths become compressed in heaving breasts,
when racing steps slow down to stumbled strains,
can aching hearts respond to love’s requests?

I cannot look upon your face but weep
when thoughts of what I might have meant to you
pervade my spirit long after I keep
appointments with our empty rendezvous.

Birds and Bees
both fly with ease
buzzing, flapping
in the breeze

Like stars that live then die their fiery death,
you, sister, ripped from me so suddenly
departed long, too long, no words, no breath
to say goodbye to loving family.

...see your words
verbal manifestation of thoughts
portraits painted with syllables
of sensuous simile and meaningful metaphor

When time and distance dim love's fervent flame
Like dreams that wane, moist wisps of morning dew,
Shall lovers keep rekindled just the same
Such love that raged unchained each day anew?

Can lovers blind to their beloved’s face
With eyes that cannot see still love as deep
As those with eyes that see the human race
Yet close them when they love, as if asleep?

What senses last when passion's heat abates
laid low to rest beneath sweet lover's quilt?
Perhaps, the taste of milky river rates
as well, or more, as tepid semen spilt

My walls are built with boundaries firmly set -
My armor cast in iron, virtue - stone,
Impervious to all, for none I've met
Are noble, knightly, worth my time alone.

How often have your walls, embattlements
Defended dauntless virtue lest it fall
To challenges, temptations, let defense
Against attacks, - hold strong, defeat them all?

Shall I compare thee to an April's day
when Spring has burst its bonds with thund'rous storms
begun with winds of March, bright blooms in May,
that challenge not thy chaste, thy changing forms?


Thirty years ago
many choices
for Eden

I see,
in she strides,
the white-clad love of my life
sweet lover not my wife,

'Time Out! ' called in basketball,
Football (American Style) , and Volleyball
to discuss new strategies, or take a breath
from some exciting play, say the coaches

You are deaf
but you can hear me
with your lips that tell me just by their touch
what words you cannot hear

Tonight's the night!
My spine tingles with anticipation
as I sit here awaiting your arrival.

A visitor,
I sit by night and day
unmoved to pen a loving word
no more the Muse its lightning thrusts

... or thereabouts,
somewhere above the diaphragm

I ask, “Why do I write? ”

Hair done up precisely, bouncing timely
musical metronome four/four time
to baton wielded by his check card –
nails hardened, colored, shaped, and sharp

The Best Poem Of Lorenzo Costigliolo

A Message To My New-Found Friend, Continued...

, , , and I love you
for what I don’t see of you
your voice through written word
though not a syllable spoken, heard
by none, yet sweet as bird
song ringing through dark silent night
lark of morning singing light
refrains of love songs, sterling bright
as your hidden eyes delight,
your empty lips, like mine,
all too alone
in verse;

and I love you
for what you see in me
that those with eyes refused to see
I standing here before them still, , ,
they turned away because I do not fit
their fantastic images
of all that they pretended me to be
nor liked my imagery
my metaphors
and similes
of me;

I love you still
not knowing who you are, really, met,
the perfect you that lives on printed page,
no height nor weight, no shape, nor age
to confuse the issue, so ideally set

is far more vivid than any words describe
lives on immutably, for today,
reappears another day, another shape
another form
for now,

and I love you now
the you I see today from words you say
beshrouded by the clouds of anonymity
and tomorrow, I’ll see you in a different way
until we meet, no pictures to pervade
my preconceptions;
the picture in my mind can change at will
and does, from light to dark
to short and round
from eyes my sapphires in the night
to brown of earth and emerald green
from lithe and lean on limber frame
to supple flesh, it’s all the same...
no image nor an earthly name.

And I to you, what image have you seen?
The who I am or who I’ve been? .

Lorenzo Costigliolo Comments

Robert E Hann 30 January 2007

Lorenz, Just read Ode to a Grasshopper and was so moved as to write my own 'Ode' to the little beast. I offer you...The Grasshopper . late summer early morning misty meadow kneehigh wildflowers grasshopper on a goldenrod stem not quite awake grab him by his back legs can't get away spits out brown tobacco juice funny face fat body make a trout REAL happy toss him in the air and he flies away . Thanx, Robert

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