Elizabeth Fontaine Grieco
Born in a magical place, north over the U.S. border of the scenic Canadian horizon, I realized at a very young age, as I traveled across this wide expanse of
unpopulated farmland, river's and huge mountains it occurred to me, that this is a special place.
Immigrated to the United States in 1977, to Brooklyn, New York, after marrying my American husband, John Grieco. Life in ... more »
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Elizabeth Fontaine Grieco Poems
A poet's thoughts may be Fraught with complexity, But his similarities keep him
Hunched over a garbage pail, A beggar chews scraps of bread. The city the never sleeps, Swallows souls that can't eat.
Love Moves Mountains
Oh! How I long for your tender touch, Your emulating sweetness, ravishing me all about, Oh! How I long for you, my Prince, Remember me in your sleep tonight,
Where did the Antelope go?
Deer are grazing near a natural spring; Drinking ground water from an unplugged Gas well filled with methane, benezene, toluene, anti-freeze.
Scars of War
Scars of War You say your calling was the Marines, But yet your life remains apart at the seams.
How can you say you love me? Where is the justification for these words? One minute you have the biggest heart of all, The next you rumble and charge at me to fall
Seeds of Hope
In strength, I see my mother, Holding strong to her convictions; Loving truth and justice; Loving her children to no end,
Friends are special to me, For without them, I just wouldn't be. They bring you up,
Judgement I fear your judgement Oh Lord! When I see what has taken place
Daisies so delicate and free flowing; Sitting in a transparent glass vase, Like our lasting love, free flowing And clear of any falsehoods;
A Fleeting Moment
Amidst the ever changing seasons, I look to find summer is fleeting; The brisk autumn wind rushes past Churning and twisting nature's greens
Bottle Of Love
Suck me into your bottle Spit me out as you wish Leaving a sour taste upon my lips After expounding for the day
The Seventeen Year Itch
The cecada eternal humming returns To us after being buried so long. It runs incessantly day and night Like an old fan belt in a car.
Life's Smallest Treasures
Life's smallest pleasures are Pure, simple and sweet, Like a babies first reach, Or a puppy's new found leap,
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Edgar Allan Poe
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(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A poet's thoughts may be
Fraught with complexity,
But his similarities keep him
Speaking with distinct clarity.