Metropolitan Homesick Blues

Southampton Stories & Other Stuff

Ed’s Poetry

with 5 comments

Going to Extremes

To feel the sun shine down on his face

He walked to the edge of the world.

To catch the wind blowing down from the North

He stood at the edge of the day.

To watch the clouds as they covered the night

He stood at the edge of the sky.

To touch the love that lived in her eyes

He lived in the realm of her soul.


Summer Solstice

Daylight lingering still.

A light wind chills the air as night falls slow

They say the Spirits hold it back

Because Golden Eagles are not ready to sleep

Their soaring splits the line connecting the land

With the quiet of sky.

The mountains are baffles

Soundproofing the valley against the chaos of the world.

Dusk light plays differently in the mountains

It lopes across the slopes and ridges

Chasing the sun away

Lasting daylight is something we all wish for.

Light is life.

Darkness takes it away.



Subways don’t give you much of a view,

Although they’re fun to ride.

So many people trying not to look at you.

When you look at them, they look away.

And the wheels of the train clacking

Sound like a blind man tapping

His cautious way down a dark street.

People who ride subways

Behave like the blind most times.

But, they can see and won’t look.

Ever see a blind man look at you?



After the rain

Rinses the Earth

The Wind wipes it dry

Before the sun can find its way from behind the clouds.

If it weren’t for the wind

Blowing storm clouds away

We’d never see the sun.

The sun owes its shining

To the wind.


SunRise X 2


Searching for the sun.

Waiting for it to wake and rise

Over a distant ridge.

Yesterday’s snow crusted mountains are covered with plush powder

Nudging the foothills, morning fog like floating frost

sits silent, suspended

On bare-aspened, fir-treed hills.

In the morning chill

I watch night driven from the valley.

Sun over the summit changes the slopes

from ghostly grey to gold-green and melts the fog away

Giving rise again to the brutal beauty of another Colorado morning.


Sunrise on the North Saskatchewan River

Ice-crusted surface locked to the shaded shore

Now a flowing free pastiche

Released by a waning winter that has long thrown away the key.

Spring brings freedom when winter tires of being a jailer.



A chance meeting in the underground.

A close, warm embrace that lingered,

Neither knowing when to let go.

Her hand traced the shape of my shoulder.

Mine rested on the small of her back a moment more than it should.

Eyes smiled.

Faces flushed.

Emotions stirred.

Embers began to glow again…


In the manner of Robert Frost

The surface of the pool was black with ice.

Frozen hard from cold that came by night.

The morning star could not erase what held so firm

The quiet water’s face.

People passed.

And thinking it their task

Threw themselves across the suspended mass.

To test the silk, the well-woven water.

They ride the weave.

And for one brief moment

They slide across nature’s bridge

To freedom.



One day

I went looking for truth

and found it

in the lies of others.

Never put your mind

In the hands of friends.

Their grip is transitory.

For when they reach out

To stop themselves from falling,

You will be the first

To touch the ground.


The Weight of Leaves

Branches overhanging the deck bringing summer shade

rise higher with falling leaves.

It is as if the weight of the world has been lifted from them.

The tree sighs and reaches for the heavens,

limbs stretching,

rising up to await the weight

of winter’s first falling snow,




Walking on Water

Walking in Venice for the first time

The cycles of time and tides unite

Revealing islands of man’s design

Reflecting water and light.

voices of children in their innocence

rise up from the street

in the distance the canals of my dreams

lead me to places I have never been

as roads and railways reach out to me

I become the journey


Rain in Venice.

The sound of it falls up from the street.

Outside our window footfalls on cobblestones.

Excited voices of children on their way to school.

Street noise trails off into silence.

Venice a watery labyrinth of islands,

Slim canals surrounding a sea swallowed city.

Bathing you in liquid silence.


Street Names

Fondamenta, Calle, Canale, Campi, Salizda, Sestiere, Rio, Ruga, Riva,

The language of thoroughfares

A dialect of direction.

A maze of passages.

Read a map of Venice and you read a poem.


San Giovanni di Evangialista

Tinoretto’s Crucifiction large upon the wall.

An old man given to the church looks into my eyes,

“You are Italian. I can see.”

Offering his hand he speaks to me as if I am his son.

I am only someone who will listen

While he tells me every detail of everything that he watches over.

Of the history

And why the paintings are so

And of the stories the paintings tell

And of the reasons for the craftsmanship in the carvings

Of wooden pews and marble reliefs

In the small church

On a small street in Venice.

Not a Duomo, Basilica or Cathedral

But a simple church

Once the sanctuary of storied men

Now in the care of a simple man

Who speaks to me in a language

I should know

Because he believes we are the same.

And that I understand.


Doing laundry on a rainy afternoon in Venice.


Rain falls heavy on the cobblestones

Washing them clean.


Looking across Canale delle Guidecca

to the island of Guidecca the light of mid-morning Venice plays at painting pictures…a pointillism blending into constantly changing portraits with the movement of sun, sky, cloud, mist and water…waterbuses crossing between shores appear as if in a Monet…canal-side cafes artfully arrange themselves on the mind’s canvass…weather worn facades of buildings become backdrops awash with the shadows of the day…churches shape the horizon…looking out across the water is like looking at a palate where light and colour are mixed and blended then splashed with buoyant abandon on the shifting scene that unfolds anew with each step you take…transformations in time indelibly painted…on your memory.



At night, lights focus on the façade

of the white marbled Duomo.

Angels perched on spires

dance in the glow,

as if basking in the Northern Lights,

give the feeling of flight.


Written by metropolitanhomesickblues

July 5, 2011 at 11:03 AM

5 Responses

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  1. Thank you Ed Nanni, or if you would prefer Pepper. Need I say I am impressed, or would that kind of spoil it. One can never anticipate the benefit one might when the pursuit of one course unexpectantly transforms into another. I note you are on WordPress. I was beginning a blog there, and then thought better of it. It was either going to be called PoeticInteraction, of PoeticPraxis. Never did figure out which was the log in name and which was the blog. But that avenue is still open to explore.
    In the meantime I will be back to reread these poems, for no other reason, than the depth of the writing demands more attention and appreciation. I am also (for the rest of my life) in the process of writing a book on line, sponsored by WEbook, which can be googled at ‘Portals of Paradox’. I would be most humbled if you considered me a fellow writer. (I’m back – seems like WordPress automatically signed me in by my blog name….)


    August 12, 2011 at 5:12 PM

  2. Yes, Ed. I told you your poetry deserved a revisit. Got a much better grip on this read-through. The friendship poem, is most explicitly about people, and so I take you seriously when you mention Frost; possibly he is your mentor. You say after being a Creative Director for many years that this is now your hobby. I would like to encourage you to take this interest to heart, and will look forward to reading more of your poems.
    I leave you with a poem I wrote at Ryerson, which in a way reflects your point of view in Friendship.
    If friendship is to always share
    In equal parts the load we bear
    And as in stories of long ago
    To give one’s life if needs be so.
    My friends, I wish them very well,
    But still they are another cell.
    My interests first, I must maintain
    Or friends will find me easy gain.
    I do confess with much relief
    I will not be a friendship thief,
    I will not take what is not due,
    I’ve not a friend on earth, have you?
    Actually, I never have quite figured out what I meant in the last two lines!! I may be contradicting myself, which would be very consistent with my way in life, generally….Thanks.


    August 15, 2011 at 10:37 AM

    • I do confess with untold grief
      I cannot be a friendship thief
      For if these words are tried and true
      I’ve not a friend on earth, have you?
      Just thought I’d bring you up to date with a re-write which doesn’t leave me feeling as though it ‘needs something’. My poetry is published both on WEbook and Allpoetry which allows me more flexibility than having a blog. There is also much use of different kinds of poetic prose in Portals of Paradox. If you google the first chapter, section two and three you will find an example – an ironic use of Kant’s title ‘Prologemona to Any Future Metaphysics’, adapted to my ‘purpose’ of satire on philosophy and madness. All the best. Will make a note to visit, perhaps at the end of each month or something. Take care, Loreen.


      October 2, 2011 at 8:38 AM

  3. Just checking in as per your advice. I understand now why I am fascinated by your poetry. It is because of the sparse use of metaphor. An occasional ‘like’, etc. but generally it is a very ‘scientific’, ‘worldly’, ’empirical’ art you have going here. Did you discover this method in your reading of Frost I wonder. Will check that out. Take care. Not sure how often I will visit, but have enjoyed the dialogue with your poetry. Take care. Loreen.


    September 29, 2011 at 5:15 PM

    • Just checkin’ in again, Ed, to see how you were doing, or rather what I would glean from another perusal of your poetry. You can tell it’s really poetic when you come back and it’s got another ‘new meaning’ to offer.
      Take care. Loreen.

      Loreen Lee

      October 5, 2013 at 4:54 PM

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