An Immigrant's Poetic Medley

By Steve Montanaro

This book contains a collage of rhymes, sprinkled, and interjected with the author’s own viewpoint and idealism, although some readers may find a few of them to be a bit provocative or at least dubitable.

It is penned with simplicity and clearness by an immigrant, whose parents, seeking a better life for themselves and their children, were finally allowed to set foot on this free and noble land. It was September 2, 1958.

This volume also includes some of his artwork, which besides his love for writing, has always been his passion.

He is a self-taught artist who works with mixed mediums including oils, acrylics, and pastels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684565566

Book preview

Un Bagliore Nell

‘Offusca Mente Pre-1957

Wishing 1-21-1983

If I had a chance, in this life,

To redo all the things that I’ve done,

I would start by mapping a new course,

And doing things mostly for fun.

I would seek the green meadow, nearby,

And cull all the flowers I’d see,

I would chase and catch a monarch,

And carve, my lover’s name, on a tree.

I would take long strolls, in the morning,

To savor the day, at its birth,

I would stand alone on a beach,

And, at dusk, with nature I’d flirt.

If I could efface the years,

And revert to places I’ve known,

I would be much wiser this time,

And a few things I’d alter for sure.

I’d lie by the creek, in the pines,

Where solitude always reigns supreme,

There, I’d watch the wind nudge the clouds,

And, finally, of my loves I’d dream.

I’d waltz alone in the green,

And bask in the lark’s refrain,

I’d sense the true meaning of life,

And muse in His unspoiled domain.

1-21-1983

Il Destino 11-28-1983

A quella vita fragile d`altrove,

Quando ricordo,il cuor ancor sospira,

Un`amor troncato in pien infanzia,

Come un bocciol d`un fiore tra le spine.

Era un di d`autunno, quando la incontrai,

Seduta sotto un albero, in panchina,

Le foglie ricamavano la strada,

Sotto un vento profumato di cantina.

Mi rubo` il cuor, quella mattina,

Con quegli occhi neri e cuore puro,

Quella sera stessa, vicino ad un giardino,

Giurammo eterno amor, sotto la luna.

Come un mormorio di vento minaccioso,

Il nostro, fu un amore sfortunato,

Fu un destin crudele quell`incontro,

Sapendo che il suo cuor era ammalato.

Come una perla limpida, una lacrima,

Con tristezza, mi fa sempre ricordar,

Col viso nelle mani, singhiozzava,

Cercando, il mio sguardo, d`evitar.

In una stanza frigida e oscura,

Una sera lei diceva : Me ne andro`

Il vento, fuori, soffiava in un lamento,

Quando nelle mie braccia, poi spiro`.

Da quel giorno non lo mai dimenticata

E spesso ritorno a quell`amor che fu,

Una colomba bianca , svolazzando,dice,

"Su coraggio! quel che era adesso non e` piu`.

11-28-1983

Plight of Old Age 12-29-1983

As I sit in this room all alone,

Shackled by four walls and a dream,

My elusive life, I often recall,

As remote as it now may seem.

Why am I shunned to decay,

In a world I still cherish and love?

Why can’t I be part of it still,

And my worth restore once more?

I know that I’m old and effete,

That my head is usually hung low.

If your pride had been stripped away,

I bet that you too, would be so!

In dejection and squalor, I wane,

‘Mongst specters of men in despair,

Old people forsaken to die,

And, for our sons, too much to bear.

Misery and grief is what I now feel,

A tremulous old man in torment,

The wind is my only friend now,

As it sobs a chilly lament.

Blissful days gone by, I recall,

Voices of laughter and cheer,

Let me retain them, oh Lord, always,

Or else, give me death without fear.

12-29-1983

A Vagrant’s Lament 2-14-1988

From lust unrestrained, I was born,

The reasons may never be known,

Loneliness is my constant companion,

As I walk these roads all alone.

Forsaken I was by all,

Dejected without any care,

No one to claim me as his own,

Dear Lord, is this really fair?

A wanderer I am, of this world,

Adrift with sadness of heart,

I wonder if my mama still lives,

And why she has kept us apart.

On a desolate path, she left me,

With anguish I vaguely recall,

The winds had burst with a vengeance,

As summer had turned into fall.

Like that murmuring wind, I now roam,

Never having enough to eat,

These rags are my only possession,

As, at night, the cold I must beat.

Weary and frail are my bones,

From years I’d rather forget,

Time has sure taken its toll,

On my body and self-respect.

When the last curtain does fall,

And this life is finished and done,

I pray that St. Peter won’t stop me,

For, in heaven, there awaits my mom.

2-14-1988

Veiled Memories 2/3/96

My Willoughby 10-9-1998

Scent of freedom,

Air so crisp and clean,

Where life, with all its glory,

Allows a heart to dream.

A murmuring stream,

Pristine, in my mind’s recess,

Where wildflowers mottle the green,

And love your soul will caress.

Visions of infants unfazed,

Slumbering on their mothers’ breasts,

And of men sating their furrows,

While praying for a bountiful harvest.

Rainbows cuddling the land,

The jasmines and the sunlit daffodil,

Then fading in the dapple of dusk,

Neath the cry of the lone whippoorwill.

A surging brine, I see,

Scenes that entice to compose,

Oleanders enchanting in bloom,

As the morn’s dew drop on a rose.

Of crimson skies and meadows, I dream,

Rusting grain in the sun,

Where the eve’s gleam o’er the dell,

Is fancied and all is mum.

When the lyre grows pallid and still,

And the lark mute o’er the lea,

I’ll flirt with this Eden at last,

In the bosom of my Willoughby.

Willoughby is a fictitious place, conceived by Rod Serling in one of his episodes of the Twilight Zone. It is depicted as a small country town where serenity and goodwill reign supreme, where there’s no crime and everyone gets along in perfect harmony. I thought it’d be nice to visit the Willoughby, which I often envision in my own mind. I enter its gate when my spirits are low or when I need a reprieve from life’s daily grind. It has never disappointed me, and I always leave it with renewed optimism for our well-being and for the future, in general.

10-9-1998

A Gentle Plea 3-1-1999

Live not in the guise of a minstrel,

Be wary of the seeds that you sow,

Lest your mind be craggy and narrow,

For temporal we are, as you know.

Your life, sunny though it be,

Is accurst neath a slab of cold stone,

Nurse not from the vine of your folly,

Else unwept you’ll die and unknown.

If villainy you court with a smile,

Heed your heart wailing within,

Thieve not from it, reflect awhile

Where you’re going and where you have been.

Forsake your lust and the scythe of wrath,

And from envy’s vagary break free,

For if your mind they fret,

Fain, for certain, you will not be.

Tame the braggart winds of pride,

And the yoke of hatred, therefore,

For life is but a lilt in the night,

But love will live evermore.

3-1-1999

Anna Maria November 1999

(My Wife)

From within these rhymes, springs,

An assertion of my true sentiment,

To her, the sun I would bring,

With the stars in the whole firmament.

A gleam of hope, in the ashen twilight,

In the tempest of life’s many woes;

A voice chastely and blithe,

Her heart, with love overflows.

The eglantine is never as sweet,

‘cause the rarest of flower is she,

Its petals, the soul still entreat,

But its essence is only for me.

To behold her guileless smile,

The sunshine and rainbows in her hair,

A garland of pearls and sapphires,

I’d bestow on my sweet lady fair.

Through my prowling mind, I see,

Her joy at a lilac’s sweet scent,

For I think of her most fondly,

In her garden, midst the smell of the land.

As I reflect on the years gone by,

A pensive mood does me overtake,

Her loyalty, cannot I deny,

Her love, could ne’er I forsake.

Though hoary and fading, I may be,

Still her love transcends and entices,

She, who has spun my life’s destiny,

Into a world of near paradise.

11-12-1999

Perception March 19, 2000

On a bed of roses, I lie,

Before the Almighty Freer,

Oleanders crimson for pillow,

As angelic strains I hear.

Upon a golden cloud,

The freedom winds, I ride,

A feeling so divine,

O’er rainbows bright, I glide.

I skim the misty seas,

With wings upon my back,

No margent, rim or whose,

On pious love I’ll snack.

In a coral garden, I dance,

With memories akin and past,

No envy, greed or strife,

Just love within my chest.

Rows of stars aglow, I see,

I nudge ’em with great delight,

No dearth of dreams unshackled,

No wish for mirth denied.

No girth about my belly,

No gout, palsy or throes,

Aloof I see the world,

Content I will repose.

Beside a silver stream,

In the lisping rain, I play,

Pine not for me, I plead,

For it’s here I wish to stay.

3-19-2000

The Good Neighbor 3-21-2000

In front of my lot,

I stood one day,

I remember it well

As if yesterday.

I was about to grill

A dog or two,

On my brand-new

Barbecue.

A woman came by,

By chance,