Isabella, dear Isabella…
Isabella, dear Isabella
A Poem by Coyote Poetry
Some people can steal your heart and mind.
I took the midnight train to Florence; the days of Spring were coming to an ending. I loved the Germany Spring and I needed dear Florence again. The city of Florence stole my heart two years ago. I loved the city of ancient buildings, and I could hear the ghostly whispers of the great writers and the poets in the wind. I would visit, when I could.
I arrived in the early morning and dear Florence was coming alive. I found a bakery and I bought some bread and a cup of coffee. I went to river Arno. Sat near the bridge and I watched the city come alive. I wrote into my journal.
Yesterday man came back to you, young man is feeling so old.
One zealous man became the sleeping man, seeking quiet places and the good books.
Life tangible made young man see, all we have is rhyme and song to be written. We create our canvas, and we arraign our life.
Dear Florence, my blessing, I do hear, the ancient writers and poets whispering. You aren’t dead, write and write some more, maybe you can save someone.”
I looked-up. A beautiful Florence girl watched me write. She was smoking a cigarette and she was wearing a Summer dress. I saw wonder in her hazel eyes. She asked in perfect English. Are you Hemingway’s ghost writing by River Arno? Are you Dante, returning to visit Firenze? I smiled and I reached my hand out to her. I told her my name is Johnnie, just a want-to-be Salinger. Just want to write something worthwhile.
She took my hand and she held it for a minute and she told me. My name is Isabella, a college student studying literature. She took my journal, she read some of my poetry and story. She whispered, I wish someone would write stories like Dante did for his Beatrice, Hemingway for his Agnes. Make my name ever lasting in the song and poetry for me.
I told her; I shall write some words for you dear Isabella.
“Isabella of the Arno river
Once man had loaded gun to his head, a dear angel came and she whispered. Not your time to die, I am Isabella, please come to Florence. I will teach you dance again, I will teach you how to sing again, I will teach you to live again. I will be waiting for you by the Arno river. Please bring me some bread and a bottle of ambrosia wine.
I waited for angel or ghost by the river Arno at the noon hour. I brought flesh bread and the Italian ambrosia wine. I knew I was waiting for myth and tale, but dear Florence could save me.
I watched the city moving and the river dancing. The view was a wonder, I know why Dante loved the ancient city.
I feel a gentle hand upon my shoulder, a beautiful girl with the eyes of hazel spoke, “Hello Johnnie, I am Isabella, I am so glad you came to me. Few believe the prophesy of kindness, few people believe in angels, few people want to be saved. Easy life, seeking little, when we should seek everything.”
I whispered, Isabella, Isabella, dear Isabella. You are the prettiest thing I ever seen; you are a Summer blessing to a tire soul. She sat down and she took my hands, she sang a ancient song.
My Dante, my Dante, we talk often of love bereft and love delight, the river Arno is a safe place for us.
Us, who loved the river, the sunny days and the bright lights of Firenze. We must bleed to create, to write.
The broken hearten people write tale of love beheld and lost. They go to war and they write of the blood and the terror. Johnnie, Johnnie. We must bleed to live. You are not done yet, a million more miles for you to go.
I will be waiting for you in old Firenze when you are done.”
I gave her the poem and she read the words. She smiled and she looked into my eyes. She asked. Do you believe in angels? Do you believe life is written or do we write our own story? I told her. We decide our journey. Life can be wonderful or self-made hell. She came closer and she held me tightly and she whispered. Dear poet, I loved the poem and today we shall drink Ambrosia wine, dance and sing, till we cannot. I want to be a Poet’s love.
I kissed her lips and I told her. Thank you dear Isabella.