Travel locations with architectural marvels are always a traveler's delight,
Each is unique in its own way & the list is long enough with no end in sight,
Rating comparisons become inevitable as we witness more during our travels,
But that would be sheer travesty of justice, as each marvel has few parallels

Europe, unsurprisingly, is at the top of the bucket list for most travel lovers,
It is toast to a multitude of exotic locations, if one were to go by numbers,
Italy is home to some of the world's famous UNESCO World Heritage sites,
Welcome to the Leaning Tower of Pisa, whose popularity has scaled great heights

Pisa, a city in Italy is a short drive from Florence - capital city of Tuscany region,
Initially an important Italian seaport, Pisa's growth thro' trade stands to reason,
Its involvement in periodic military conflicts enabled Pisa to become affluent,
Pisans conveyed their importance through construction of religious monuments

The Tower of Pisa is one of the four buildings that constitutes the cathedral complex,
It is a freestanding bell tower and considered the piazza's crowning glory in the annexe,
Located on the city's main "Miracles Square", it differs from most medieval architecture,
It is symbolic of Italian architectural expertise at its best, with just cause for conjecture

The complex was meant to display treasures brought back from Sicily by adventurers,
The bell tower was configured to be the tallest of its age - a landmark for all travelers,
The name Pisa reportedly originates from the Greek word for "marshy land",
Failure to factor subsoil condition, resulted in construction not going as planned

Provision of a shallow and heavy foundation was apparently a gross oversight,
That the construction would be inevitably doomed, was obvious in hindsight,
The tower began to sink to one side while the second storey was being built,
Adding taller columns and arches to the south side, did little to offset the tilt

By the fourth storey, disparity in the arches to restore balance was to no avail,
Attempts to restore centre of gravity from the third storey added to the travails,
Construction continued to the full eight storeys, with the tilt still in place,
That the tower took 200 years to build and is still standing, is the saving grace!

Visitors can climb to the top of the tower, involving a steep climb of 251 steps,
Climbing the tilted building is heady excitement that requires no mental preps,
The tower has seven bells for divine timekeeping - one for each musical note,
Prudently calling it a miracle of medieval engineering, is a worthy point to note

The tower being one of Italy's signature sights should be of little surprise to one and all,
Imagine the awe of looking at a tilted 58 metre-high tower, appearing to be in free fall,
Leaning a startling 3.9 degrees off the vertical, as if in defiance of all geometrical odds,
The Leaning Tower of Pisa truly lives up to it's name, as if ordained by the gods

The Leaning Tower of Pisa's extraordinary tilt makes it an authentic miracle of statics,
You tend to keep looking back at the tower as you saunter, to savor the imagery magic,
And grapple with a bunch of baffling explanations, wondering how the tower defies gravity,
Whilst shaking the head in disbelief & finally nodding, that the visual treat is indeed a rarity!

I think I'll go across the sea,
And study music in Italy.
Leave with only the clothes on my back,
My jacket pocket full of little literatures.

Or should I study English arts,
In England?
I doubt I'd read much,
There's not a lot to see in a London fog.

I signed up for Duolingo again,
So when I grow old,
And I am weary of this mortal country,
I may take my aching bones,
To old Italy.
Where I will have coffee,
And read paper news,
That way the old game can't bother me.

From my new book, Poems of Ancient Rome and Greece, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as eBook on Kindle, Nook, and Apple Books:  https://www.amazon.com/Poems-Ancient-Greece-Christopher-Saitta/dp/B0DS6933HB?ref=astauthor_dp  

My mother the sea,
She woke my sandy eyes,
Just to tell me she had to leave,
Draw past the markets where the fish are sun-dried,
Snarled by the coral-rough hands of divers deep.

My mother the sea,
She left her running tab
Of the grocer’s choicest greens,
Thumbed the velamentous rinds and spiny scarola,
Her xylem and phloem are the slow moving cruciferousness of a breeze.

My mother the sea,
Charwoman of tides,
Who dips and delves upon her knees,
Who scrubs her brothel-coves with chamber lye,
Cyprian mistress of the salt-stained sheets.

I have looked for you, mother,
A scugnizzo amid the striped awnings of the marketplace
~ like sails to the sky ~
Where the fishmongers hawk their pride
Of conch, cavallo, and black sea bream.

I have looked for you, mother,
Walked sun-forged along the boardwalk,
Amid the neon-mascara of signs,
Hand-in-hand with only the ladyfingers of salt and vinegar fries,
Toward the crisp syllabub of pebbles and sand.

A beach is window-warmth spread free, cosmopolitan,
The longeur of eyes crushed in the glass-dust of cities.
And in the sputtering of the frosted spume of tides,
Held broken seashells in my hands like broken needles,
Heard the pump-click of the ventilator through your mask of sand.

My mother the sea,
A naked convalescent,
Whose ever-turnings have taken
A turn for the worse.
Who will know her by her death, who but me?

Today
I visited a cemetery
For a geocache
But I found
Something else
I visited the Italian section
Hoping to find some of my culture
But I found
A small grave
Sticking out of the ground
Labeled
”Alice”
It had her parents names
And nothing but her date of birth
And death
She was seven months old.
Her poor parents
She never got to speak
To walk
To wonder
To make friends
To go to school
To get a job
I wonder
If her parents still think about her
If they're even still alive

Poor baby Alice…

I wrote of Italy as a little girl
I never knew it would take me here
With your brown curly hair that you hate but I adore
I want my children to have your every feature
I know you see me and I see you
You are so scared that I will abandon you
You are here to stay and I am loyal
There is no need to hide or fight anymore
When you come back to America
I hope to be the one you search for.

Sing my song of forgetting,
Of lips never wrong, never upsetting,
Sing the wine-infused air along,
From the violin’s grapevine song,
Purely gifted as the altar wine and alms
Of the Santa Maria della Visitazione,
A cadenza from the catgut of stringed waves,
     The vibrato in polyphonic staves across the lagoon,
          Amid the psaltery sway of submerged algae plumes,
               Like the strident tails of the horses of Neptune,
Or the teardrop-surge of the glass chandeliers of Murano,
The same powdered hue of Venetian sky,
As bluebirds fallen into their own drowned tune,  
As absence awash over the sun-scattered tombs of Olympus.

Sing with a felt-tipped tongue,
So my song of forgetting is never undone.