Venice, it seems, is buildings, streets, canals
but look again, it is built from dreams
and knitted together by we, the dreamers
The biggest dreamer, Abbot Kinney,
dreamed Venice out of the void
And into the soft fog of the world
By his side, Irving Tabor dreamed
of sunlight and good for his people
In a few blocks called Oakwood
When Abbot died, little dreamers
sat by the beach and dreamed
only for a family, a job and a home
Then came the poetic dreams of the Beats
set to the lonely bebop riffs
of seagulls’ cries and waves pounding
Stuart Perkoff dreamed
of the Lady, and the Lady
dreamed of Stuart
John Haag dreamed of freeing Venice
for the people, for all the people
to live in peace in a city of their own.
Philomene Long wove
her dream of timeless love
from her lofty perch by the sea.
Now, thousands dream
their dreams that everyday
recreate Venice in our minds.
Do you have a Venice dream?
If you do, make if real,
make if real.
After Keats’ On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer
By Jim Smith
Much had I traveled – or so I thought – in the lands
made brilliant by the poet laureate of Venice
‘til this mammoth and beautiful book
revealed to me my ignorance.
But now, with book in hand,
I can journey to every realm
under heaven and beyond the stars.
I took this magical tome in hand
and opened it at random.
Three baby pigeons flew out
and began chirping
The room came alive
with gulls, doves and
I was now on Paloma’s beach
The sun became bright
and chased the fog away.
I looked up at an old castle
and saw two poets
standing in the window
their gaze was upon the ocean
Storm clouds appeared
as suddenly as turning a page.
The poet appeared as a giant on the beach
gliding toward me out of the setting sun
Twenty feet tall at least.
Her voice roared like a winter storm,
A booming roll of thunder seemed to say,
who will walk upon our footsteps
that the light of Venice not be extinguished?
Then I was in her room
high up in the Ellison
She was alone,
but a presence lingered.
She spoke to John
across the chasm of death
as if it were of no consequence.
As she told us, her poems
have conquered death.
They are beyond his reach.
I closed the book
and looked around
at my familiar room.
I will return often
to this magic book,
I thought of Philomene
and the journeys
we would have together.