Poetry

Poetry

A CREATION MYTH – BY Laura Shepard Townsend
Sometimes – By Pano Douvos
The Empty Aisle – By Pasquale Trellese
——————————————————–
A CREATION MYTH
(In honor of Venice-of-America’s 109th Birthday)

In a time that was,
(And in a time that was not)
Abbot Kinney hid in a bin to safeguard his life
From Turks bayoneting all infidels found
Oh, how the blood of Christians
Spilled onto the dock that day
A carmine blood delta flowing to the sea.

And Abbot Kinney said his prayers to the cosmos
He knew his life was over
But it was not, it was not….
Destiny had other plans for Abbot Kinney
And he escaped in a small boat to Africa
With only his life
HIS life!
And Abbot Kinney now Knew
Oh, the preciousness of life!!

That very day, his soul vowed never to trivialize
The significance of his life
With mundane endeavors of any kind
And his heart heard…and knew the truth of it
And his intellect heard and knew the truth of it
And thus sanity was born in Abbot Kinney
And Abbot Kinney returned from Africa
An integrated man, enveloped within his own intuition…

Fast forward to another lifetime in Ocean Park
A partner dies, a partner buys
The usual arguments of money and greed emerging
Abbot Kinney calls a meeting of the partners
To trade all of his holdings in their developments
For a mosquito swamp to the south
A sump deemed as unsuitable for habitation

The investors gleed in their greed
Oh, the wily Kinney has gone mad, he’s mad!

They celebrated their good fortune and their wealth
And signed the papers oh so quickly
Deeding the marshland to Kinney
Before the asylum could come to
Claim the insane Kinney and drag him away.

But Abbot Kinney had walked those bogs
And marshlands to the south
He had felt an energy harbored there
Oh, yes, we still sing the song of those spirits
In Venice to this very day!

Nothing to be done with marshes, but canals
And so it was on the first day of dredge
As steel blades of chuffing bulldozers
Pushed dank Cambrian ooze to formulate banks
Abbot Kinney saw faint illuminations of vapor
From the foaming mud primordial
An interred Goddess emerged

The workmen saw the apparition not
But it was The Goddess Venus
Come to ply Abbot Kinney with visions
Golden tresses bewitched by the
Breaths of her attendant deities and fairy folk

And then Venus began her songs of creation
In altered states of melodic harmonies
Goddess songs of sites ancient and mythical
She sang of past cities of magic and golden light
To enchant Abbot Kinney with the land in his keeping
And ply his mind with visions of a creation
And its significance to the Earth and to the World

Abbot Kinney, smitten, changed the name of the city
To Venice to honor the Goddess Venus
Venice — a place of learning and enlightenment
Venice — a haven of harmony and inspiration for artists
Venice – a perfumed sensory experience
Venice – where transformation would be guided by Muses

And Abbot Kinney continued in his creation of a city that
Venus sang as revelation to him

A city that he fiercely loved with all of his heart
A city he gave to the world for all time……

…..that city is called Venice
– Laura Shepard Townsend

Laura - Young AK
————————————————–
Sometimes

She loves me stuck with me
years upon eons
partially dug my poems

And refused a dedication
on my chapbook page
what means that

I slip her initials in and
survived a coupla fuck you’s
she defends turf well

Throws adequate sparks
likes my hands
other parts unremarked

She has a honey-combed laugh
a 9.5 in body construct
with dancers elegant stride

Plus electric-socket power
coursing her sedate facade

She nearly 100% gold though
sometimes signs need for
more space elsewhere

My silent huff turns me dull-grey
that’s already annoying eh making
Eh whose perfect may be asked

– Pano Douvos ’14
————————————
The Empty Aisle

I feel the soft strain draining me
Word by word
Reigning in sleep
Spinning my mind
Forever spinning
Discomfort surrounding anticipation
Anxious
Yet fearful of its end
Its loss of the pen
Its usage
Its meaning of life and only reason
I curse the turmoil
The toil it takes
Knowing its existence
Understanding its compromise
Accepting its fate
The self-hatred for having its gift
Honor
Yet scared to abandon
The ink of life
Its message
The proud moments of thought for being
I extoll no virtue
No clarity of soul
Or rightful place
No preaching pulpit
Or empty pew
I feel the passion exiting
Note by note
Melody lost
Wounding my skin
With scars in tow
Heading down the empty aisle. . . .

– Pasquale Trellese

Bio
Pasquale Trellese was a Venice Poet of the early 21st century. In his spare time, “Artie”, as he was known around town, served happily as handyman, art installer, and tender of bar at the infamous Sponto Gallery.

When Pasquale discovered he had only a short time to live, he dedicated his precious time and dwindling energy to writing and publishing his poems. A true Poet, he was still courting the muse with his dying breath.

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Categories: Poetry

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