2 poems

by Ave Jeanne Ventresca

life is a thief

life is a thief

with tiny hands

and knuckles rough,

who creeps a 

silent journey

through many people’s

calendars, and so

it has become that

living has decided to

paint each horizon into

a gallery of portraits,

all still wet with oil 

and long intent strokes 

from a world wind, and 

so I sit with thoughts

on this

day of clouds, mindful

of cold, empty sidewalks

where many friends

have passed away.




portrait in ochre yellow / pigeons of Milan

according to the locals

pigeons of Milan

listen to people’s conversations

as they wild sprinting grasp

for crumbs along sun warm stone and

grass just plowed. i have seen them

as they repeat phrases of old men,

respond with questions when

young children have faces that

laugh through snow falls soft,

landing in concrete birdbaths

and upon these occasional

umbrellas ochre yellow. notice 

their expressions. they actually

wonder when phrases include them

when those who saunter along

see their hunger and winter thirst. it is

obvious at sunrise, they are

not sure how to react, but they do

understand that their existence is owed

to these biscotti throwers, those who leave

crusts on purpose, or others, who toss

wishes for good fortune that heads their way.

crowds of black, gray, and white little bodies

dart through wind soft as conversations

continually unfold.  wild sprinting grasps

toward food with appreciative wings

flapping and desperate beaks.







Ave Jeanne Ventresca (aka: ave jeanne) is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry that reflect social and environmental concerns. Her most recent collection, Noticing The Colors of Ordinary, was released in 2019.  Her award winning poetry has been widely published internationally within commercial and literary magazines, in print and online. Ave Jeanne was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for 2019. She edited the acclaimed literary magazine Black Bear Review, and served as publisher of Black Bear Publications for twenty years.  

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beach trip

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the stories we tell ourselves