Apollonia

The Muses Leaving Their Father
Apollo to Go Out and Light the
World, (1868), Gustave Moreau

Shaken from slumber, I penned this simple ode to Apollonia, who still haunts my mind.

Apollonia

Apollonia was dark and sibylline.
We shared a love of books.
After school, we’d read bawdy verse
Between the stacks and nooks.

We dreamed of Barsoom’s distant sands
And tilted at windmills in sunny Spain.
She was Cleopatra to my Antony;
I was Tarzan to her Jane.

“Apollonia,” I’d whisper—
The mere sound of her name,
An invocation to Apollo himself,
A bright, burning flame.

Her family moved across town—
It felt a world away.
They say young love fades with time,
But I taste her kiss to this day.

Coffee, Memory, and Passing Encounters

I dug up a couple of my lyric vignettes to share—small moments gathered in cafés, where ritual and chance still linger. One returns, again and again, to a place haunted by history; the other records a single meeting, brief and unresolved, that refuses to settle into the past. ~ Giovanni di Napoli

Caffè Gambrinus

With each visit to Naples,
I make my way to Caffè Gambrinus,
The old coffee house across from the Royal Palace.
I raise a quiet toast
To the poets and artists who gathered there before me.

Their ghosts linger in the Art Nouveau rooms,
Like old Gambrinus himself.
I sip my caffè, eat my sfogliatelle, and watch the crowd,
Summoning, for a moment,
The faded splendor of the Belle Époque.

Cafè Gambrinus

A ogne víseta a Nápule,
Vaco ‘o’ Café Gambinus,
‘O cafè antico ‘e rimpetto ‘o Palazzo Riale.
Faccio nu brínnese zitto zitto
‘E’ puete e artiste
Ca nce arrucchiájeno primm’’e mme.

‘E fantáseme lloro nce rummáneno
Int’’e sale stile liberty,
Comm’’o viecchio Gambrinus isso stesso.
Me piglio ‘o surzillo mio,
Me magno ‘e sfugliatelle, e tengo a mente ‘a folla,
Facenno turnà, pe nu mumento
‘O sbrannore appassulejato d’’a belle époque.

Stella

We met at the café, and I held the door for her.
She smiled; I nodded and said, “Good morning.”

Taking her order, the barista asks her name—Stella.
Her hair jet; her eyes dark, almond-shaped.

“Your usual?” he asks me—un caffé.
She lifts her cup and says only, “Good day.”

And so I wait, and wait again,
For another morning that might place Stella in my path.

Stella

Nce simmo ncuntrate ‘o’ café, e i’ tenevo aperta ‘a porta p’essa.
Surrideva; i’ capuzzejavo e dicevo, «bongiorno».

‘O barista, lesto a fà l’órdene, nce addimanna ‘o nomme- Stella.
‘E capille suoje curuvine; ll’uocchie nire, ‘amménnole.

«’O sóleto?» addimanna a mme- nu café.
Chella s’aíza ‘a tazzulella e dice sulo, «Bona jurnata».

E accussí i’ aspetto e aspetto ancora,
Pe n’ata matina ca me mettesse ccà annanze Stella.

* Translations by Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

Black Moon Rising

Last night, beneath a cloudy sky where the moon refused to show its face, I found myself enjoying the cool night air. The stars hung distant and aloof, and in their silence I slipped into reverie. The darkness above felt like a blank page, and before long, I had written a sonnet for Alana, an old lover whose memory has stayed with me.

Alana’s life and death left an indelible mark on me; this poem is offered in her memory. The nicknames and slurs in the verses are not mine, but the cruel words she endured. They remain here only to bear witness. The events are rendered in the language of poetry, but the story is true: she lived, she was wronged, and she is remembered. My intent is not to sensationalize her tragedy, but to preserve, in some small way, the truth of her suffering and the dignity of her name.

In the silence of a moonless night, her memory rose like a dark tide—solemn, undeniable, and enduring.

Alana Puttana Baccalà

They called her “bagascia,” with sneering lies,
Cruel whispers tossed by boys in bitter pride;
Their hollow charms could never catch her eyes,
Though each had schemed to take her for a ride.

I burned for her—she knew, and drew me near;
In youthful heat I gave what love could give.
She took, then vanished—cool, remote, severe,
While I remained, still aching to re-live.

Tired of boys, she crossed forbidden lines,
No hint she’d ever stray another way.
Then horror struck—her body bore the crime;
She carried plague no prayer could keep away.

So silence claimed her with its final breath:
A wrist gone white—a red, unspoken death.

Sanfedisti

In this third installment of my "virtual chapbook," I pay homage to the great counter-revolutionary hero Cardinal Fabrizio Ruffo (1744-1827) and his Army of the Holy Faith (Sanfedisti), who defeated the subversive Jacobins and liberated the Kingdom of Naples in 1799.

Sanfedisti

Vermilion raiment at the head of the host
Answering His Majesty’s call,
To defend faith, family and hearth
From Napoleonic Gaul.

The warrior prelate from old Magna Graecia
Raised an unwavering array,
Like Patrizia over the “maiden-voiced”
The Army of the Holy Faith delivered Parthenope.

Routing the traitorous Jacobin
They felled the “Trees of Liberty,”
And restored to his rightful throne
His Sicilian Majesty.

The Fall of the Rebel Angels

The Fall of the Rebel Angels (ca. 1666),
Luca Giordano, Kunsthistorisches
Museum, Vienna, Austria

In this second installment of my "virtual chapbook," I sing of the downfall of the Luciferians. Never realizing my plan to pen my own epic poem in the vein of Joost van den Vondel's Lucifer (1654), I neatly summarized the War in Heaven and its repercussions in Campania in three short stanzas.

The Fall of the Rebel Angels

Angelic trumpets sound
And the rebels stormed the gate.
The Morningstar cast down,
Diadem knocked from his pate.

A piece of Heaven fell with him,
Plunging into the Siren’s Bay.
Avernus retched its foul air,
Vesuvius convulsed and quaked.

Weeping over the desolation,
Christ’s tears fecundate.
The land of bells lies forever
Between the realms of love and hate.

Brenda

Paolo and Francesca da Rimini (ca. 1856-60)
by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres

As part of my New Year’s resolution and live life to the fullest attitude, I started dabbling with poetry again. Overly self-critical of my work, I was convinced by trusted friends to take a chance and share them. Finally taking the plunge, I’m posting “My Latest Flame” for Valentine’s Day, which I penned dans un petit café français back in late December in Manhattan.

The accompanying image of the ill-fated lovers Paolo and Francesca by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres has long been a favorite of mine. Inspired by the adulterous tale in Dante’s Inferno, Canto V, the painting has nothing to do with my poem or love interest. I could have just as easily used Pygmalion and Galatea by Jean-Léon Gérôme, Orpheus and Eurydice by Auguste Rodin or any number of masterpieces to limn my romantic desire for the Iberian Circé who sets my heart afire.

Brenda

“Love reasons without reason.” ~ William Shakespeare, Cymbeline

On paper, my latest flame
Is all wrong for me;
Tattooed with a septum nose ring,
Alas, she cannot make a good café.
Her slender figure
And terrone dark complexion
Make me turn a blind eye.
Clearly, I have a type,
And prone to fall suddenly,
Not so much in love as desire.
Kari, Lillian and Gavi before
Were my Beatrice, Laura and Fiammetta;
Now Brenda,
In her white tee-shirt and overalls
Melts my heart
With her Spanish lisp.

Edited on Sunday, February 1, 2026 (title change and minor edit)