Saturday, May 08, 2010

the all new plan

whatever it is,my wife finds anything out of line,
anything at all, she’ll be pissed
doesn’t matter what it is.
hope there’s nothing i’ve missed.

i’ve got to anticipate, that means
clean up after myself, not make a mess
and keep her kissed . . . well, at least amused.
no one gets a free ride round here,

not even the frogs. not these days,
and make them damn robins pay
for all the worms they’re taking;
those dirty dirt peckers.

and i’m turning myself a new leaf, sure enough,
starting first thing tomorrow if i can,
well, tomorrow afternoon at the latest,
you can bank on it, cause that’s the plan.

so you may not recognize me,
cause i’ll be the one all the time head down an working, an I’m not
jerking you around, that’s for certain, well, that is the plan.
i’m the new man til they pull the final curtain, practically.
wa ya'think?

Thursday, May 06, 2010

pilgrims cry

was a file
kept with my others.
title looked intriguing,
opened it,

nothing inside,
only a title.
i thought it would grow
from that small beginning

it didn’t; so what does that tell me?
writing beginnings can sit for a long time
unlike buds in spring or leaves in the fall that let go.
i made a sandwich to stall and consider.

had a model of the mayflower when i was a kid,
from the bar in a restaurant my folks took me to.
don’t remember ever playing with that ship
but i had it for a while, or at least i think i did.

now, pilgrims,
you're not usually thought about in May,
you are a story, seems from forever so long ago,
and should be remembered more, 's what i say.

you were before trains, TV, traffic,and airplanes,
when our country was land full of trees,
a lot of rolling earth, Indians and lightening bugs,
and many down sloping clean, fresh running streams.

good night kisses and motherly hugs,
that’s how it was done. now don’t you cry, pilgrims,
you did yours starting out and getting us here. thanks
from the generations that followed in the Mayflower's wake.

there’s still trouble with religion, war, and government,
the same old woes do go on; and like others in their time,
you know, we too did both our job and made a bit of mess.
patching, between accomplishments, an living with the stress.

guy problems

icebergs are melting,
great globs of trash are floating in the oceans,
the universe is expanding or shrinking ;
scientists have conflicting notions.

is it hotter
or colder,
what’s going on;
and what about the economy?

more than i can handle sometimes.
though i can squeak by knowing two things:
is what i have on okay?
and, what’s for dinner?

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

i thought chili peppers were hot

i thought chili peppers were hot,
that was the story, just hot.
then i ate a few,
okay, maybe more than a thousand.

not all at once, you know,
only if you add them up. a lot of them
in my lifetime, you see;
and what i got was an understanding

and an appreciation
for peppers in general.
sounds like a civil war commander
General Pepper,

and i did work for an old Pepper too.
Bill, he was from Kentucky.
Waddy, Kentucky to be exact.
How would i possibly remember that;

except that he wrote a song and
wanted me to help make it a hit, no kidding.
he called it - Move your Body to the Waddy.
and i thought i was making this up.

well, maybe with the Internet
and who know what all,
Bills words will live long, on into dark nights,
down rolling hills and by bushes where animals call;

but i swear it is true as clear water
gushing out of a mountain stream;
tasteless yet refreshing,
but no way a hit, you know what i mean?

all this takes us back to peppers
or at least me, where i began, it does.
i’ll sprinkle red hot ones on my food
cause it gives my mouth that happy buzz.

they were eating pepper five thousand years ago
in the Americas, that’s a fact;
and they stayed cause they are good,
but i don’t have to tell you that.

come on Bill, let’s make a song of it,
for the mountains and the trees and the birds
and the new people who came over and started
this up, along with and especially for, the Indians.

Monday, May 03, 2010

on Pasquali's family business

daughter.
good cooking daughter
satisfied to be there,
smiles when she sees us,
serves us well and plenty.

son.
son seems content in his labor
finding his own self,
following his father’s way;
stays on task throughout the day.

husband.
Pasquali is the quintessential good guy,
out there, friendly and happy,
he’ll stop and talk;
sits down with us if it’s slow.

wife.
don’t rush to pay if you see her,
now here’s the real score,
when old wifey takes the cash
it always costs a little more.

Sunday, May 02, 2010

as a measure of time

as a measure of time,
tables - use old wood to build them,
or poems that i scratch out;
the tables aren’t much.

just made a small one
to hold my keyboard nicely,
the computer keyboard,
not the piano.

the piano sits well enough already
on the floor in the other room
where it ought to be,
like you, like me,

in place where we ought to be.
can i measure time building tables,
make a clock of it? there are pictures
to paint, engravings to do, things to write.

all comes from within like breathing country air
and i let it out as it happens to me.
need i direct it more, control
and make a neat scene

or continue to write poems at random,
then build something,
paint something,
read or write when it happens?

at least, at most,
i am happy about it,
like life in the city
and many people to talk with;

what they do is their affair.
i keep head down with what i do,
although she has mentioned that
we don’t need another table.

rising early in the morning
in stillness, alone,
far trains passing
clocks ticking, tripping silence.