a northern hemisphere poet

A Northern hemisphere poet i am
in winter cold, summer heat,
  technology has taken my words around the world
i'll remain where i was born.

in january snow, frozen water
april showers, colorful flowers;
spring off to summer heat
fall leaves golden, falling, crackling,

thanksgiving then christmas
'til the end of the year
when begins another.
short days to long ones.

good sun, wobbling earth
summer for baseball
winter for snow balls and ice skating -
cycle long and short days.

when hundreds of years asleep at near light speed
to another planet, new ways to learn;
leave me the old fashion ways
in days i know...where i'm from.

through the silent halls of time
i'll take mine as i know them;
now before you go off in a flash,
one thing, please, take out the trash.

Norwhere where

the lake is a pond, half-mile long,
sans clouds,wind, birds or fish jumping.
mid-afternoon reflects trees on the opposite side
a slight blur of red and blue in light haze sky.
still the water, absolutely
this beautiful prewinter day
quiet, lovely as can be, i say.

sunshine is
relatively quiet

so is moonlight

come on, dogs

come on, dogs, get up
you are needed to work today
to fill the spaces on the line
assemble good order

no surprises
be kind to all around you
and slave, dog, slave
like every day

you are wanted to glue everything together
keep it running.
run dogs, run.
lick your ears on your own time

organize

i told m. i was organizing my poems, notes and writings;
she pointed to the kitchen and said
she was going to turn old coffee grounds
into gold coins.

what it ought to be

In the shade of the sun
on the porch today

after a back and forth summer for decent weather;
now it is here – warm and pleasant.

Sitting, comfortable, enjoying
what summer ought to be.
dance with the sun

11 June, 2015

Outside the country store
not many sounds
a car, a shopper
distant birds, chickens.
not much going on this Thursday morning;
good June sun, still air.
smells of summer, over all.



re. the above
We drove the quiet road straight south twenty minutes to get there, where we call - in the country. The Amish area.
Quiet and peaceful, a warm summer day. There were bird sounds I didn't recognize. I was standing in the sun by the car waiting for M to pick up a few things when this scene appeared before me, for me. Then and there I was in the middle of it, just looking around, happily for a few minutes when I realized, then and there, this was the good stuff of life. I wrote it down then to preserve it.

spring collection

for the season here's a collection of words for Spring.


spring off

as Ohioans we are accustomed to temperature extremes
i remember my mom telling me that in 1937 it snowed on
the fourth of july
weather change is the wild goat that lurks before it charges
now this year spring is May
we can go ahead and pencil it in

after winter's farewell snow
on gusty winds entered the warmer air with a
deep blue sky as backdrop for mammoth clouds tumbling fair
unleashing lawns, trees, bushes and flowers, nesting birds and buds
fresh and underway
nature reborn
this new season has begun

you can water golf courses and keep them pristine
but it's nothing, nothing like the clean
gleam of full young spring

spring arrived
wore my big coat the other day
spring arrived just yesterday
it blew in on silent wings
and hovered above the neighborhood
before wrappinig down around us

now it's hot, in a t-shirt today
i heard the boys call outside playing
there are green buds
and singing birds nest building

it's sometimes still winter
after the snows melt
but i'm sure
it's steady spring at last
when i leave a window open

the shallow cove

the shallow cove narrows
by brushes and thickets
our old row boat sparkles
under sunned running waters

when spring floods the low lands
all return and rebuild
for memories run deeper
than fat fish go up stream


spring to chaos

spring to chaos
stuffed with energy
here to the brim, back again
carried by people
in sighing light wind
laughing brght colors
leaping over piazzas
honking from buses
blue shadow and makeup
wine served with pizza
the short-skirted on mini-stilts
tap-tap clicking down old alleys in heels
checkered cloth and waiters
bells chime the hour
to the cobblestone sun
coffee at outside tables
amid smiling faces
talk a lot


folly of spring

here i am, there are no geese.
must i go looking
in the usual places
where they congregate,

i don’t think so;
they can wait
and better they do,
a lesson for them all.

they know only their own reflection in the lake.
if they can recall other than their own image,
let them vent their wings and
see if they can find me.

a walk on the pier will show me many fish,
occasional mouth open bobbers and long swelling floaters,
but i don’t want to encounter any geese;
not that way, not today, not yet anyway.


root spring

from roots deep we spring
as child with family and pets,
friends, cousins, uncles and aunts.
in school and holidays, we grow

a spinning maze
overlapped and interlaced
in motion. when in a flash
we're old and recall gone days

then in a breath
we are back
to where are
our roots





after winter's farewell snow
on gusty winds entered the warmer air with a
deep blue sky as backdrop for mammoth clouds tumbling fair
unleashing lawns, trees, bushes and flowers, nesting birds and buds
fresh and underway
nature reborn
this new season has begun

chill dawn

chill dawn
on the road to shiloh.
a violet, rose haze,
with blue on edges of far fields.

1844 written on the house on a rise,
other old homes 
blanketed in vinyl.
all barns red, newly covered in tin.

there's no balloon on earth
like the fiery red sun
rising in all her glory,
beginning the new day.

on cool morning

opened my eyes at five,
thinking as if awake
listening to light wind stirrings,
while drops tap the window
evenly marking time

then seven-thirty in red clock numbers
may have been creating during the interval,
dream-thinking, planning, being practical,
but not overly confident of value gain,

took no notes while considering,listening to rain.
thoughts may have been of value;
with nothing written
there's no way to say.

how comfortable to awaken early, thinking softly,
from under a soft comforter,
hearing drops and splatters beyond the glass
all that matters...on cool morning

gee and i

in rome it is easy to see the permanence
or lack there of
as time inches on.

at juliano's, on our street,
street of the hatmakers, of which
there are no more, not now, they have gone
to wherever old hat makers go when they are
too old or tired to make hats or dead.
some think you are never
too old to make a hat.
but it wasn't a hat maker who said it.

gee and i had lunch today
was Giano, now gee, what friends call him.
he's my friend, though
i don't understand him, or who he is
but we're friends and had lunch.
tonarelli and tuna, juliano made it
it was very good
gee called juliano a sommelier
i didn't know he knew that word
a lot of surprises

other times gee and i have stood around
caught a little sun, leaned against the
old stone wall being quiet, mostly...
he speaks the roman street dialect
as do all his friends, except me.
i learn a little, he gives me some,
because i have asked for it. i live here too.

today when i was leaving
he said go easy,i said i alway do
out of the blue he said,
"chi va piano e sano va lontano"
he who goes slowly and sane goes far.
this is gee the street tough, my friend

yo, you

to you, see
so near, so far
by bus, by car

i'm kidding you
it's always bus

to market, trionfale
mark that down and take a list
or only have a few things in mind
going there. it's what i can hold
a few thing in my mind

if you look at a map
but never mind, no one does
unless you're driving, or walking
not bus riding. need only
look for the sign, at the sign
on a pole, waiting for you to look at it

all days, even eclipse ones
that comes every hundred years
like we're in today...
what can i say; but wait
there'll be another,
you know how it goes.

comes and goes
heaven knows
the little secrets the sun lets out
every now and then
when it feels right.
my my, my my.
say it - my, my, my
let the sunshine.

Bond be

the film-making lights remain,
by the river, and a big yellow crane,
not the bird kind, the metal type.
Rain'll be here Sunday, so will Bond be.

i bought an ice cream cone today,
saw the evidence by the river.
it's only a block away. had to look
because people were crowding around.

tonight at ten they'll be shooting
and a scooting. i'll be in bed,
listening to the helicopter, rooting
for the guy in the silver aston-martin.

yell at a dog

yell at a dog
it'll feel bad...look sad
and not remember
what he did wrong

in winter chill

in winter chill
14 youngsters
got off the city bus
orderly, quietly

the wee bundled
bunched together
like tiny sheep
so very well behaved

inside we old
smiled and chuckled
from warmth the sight
gave to our heart

the guys on the street

tired gino didn't sleep well
wears jeans with holes and red patches,
and new blonde leather desert boots,
looking forward to lunch, he is

tells some shape of pasta
i didn't understand
and tomato sauce.
he'll eat a lot and be sleepy

mailman on a motorbike stops
distributes packages into metal slots
says a few words to the locals
then continued up the street

i watched and leaned against the wall
contributed little to the conversations
did say it would rain this afternoon
the new local guy was interested

gino was not impressed, per usual
acted like he doesn't hear
has no expression, never does
yet, we're friends, everyone knows that

new guy talks with cinzia
romanesque friends saying nothings,
small talk together
signifying friendship

piccolo manuele struts in
wants to talk to new guy
who tells him, "ten minutes"
and brushes him away.

gino's elderly mother here today
day earlier than usual
he walks her toward franco's
whose wife is sister to Gino's mom

i am accepted now by manuale
he wasn't an ass today
we ignored each other
that's getting along on the street

mario whipped in, didn't speak
we will later, or some time.
he and i know we'll talk
when it happens, when necessary,

just now and then we do.
tough friends on the street.
for us, for the way it is
on via dei cappellari

i can't explain. where there is
no explanation for anything
it's not in the cards to matter
who's dealing or what deck is used.

manuele tries to get new guy away
again new guy holds up his hand
says, "ten minutes", turns his head;
piccolo rides away on his bicycle.



while writing this note
computer starts a scan
decides to reboot

i wait fifteen minutes
to see if the file i was working on
was lost.
it wasn't, this is it.

i suppose this is another
happy ending; though it depends
on how tough you're grading,
or how much pasta gino ate
sorry for the red herring,
just making conversation, poetically.

also ran, not me

birthday 70 out of nowhere

everywhere but facebook

said i was born 1905

FB wishes me happy 110

i join a poetry group online

can i think poetry?

russian major opposition leader

killed in front of kremlin

poetry stares at me

piano wants me play

book wants me write

edit calls for me

read before library

demands books returned

nutball stalker out there

have a nice day, a happy face

melodies want

out of me, me

and you, me, me...

70? not kidding?

i know the wished, not-wished

dark horse racing

through mist over

ever distant hills

3061

our phone number - four digits,

used to be three

when i was too young

to think about it

you could dial out of state

with help from the operator.

a little guy, Heinie Kensel,

was the village Morse code operator.

he rode a bicycle to work,

and repaired bikes at home on Adams Ave.,

in a part of town called Oklahoma;

probably cause it was out west of town.

Heinie worked at the train depot.

i'd been there, only for looking around.

a large beamed wooden building

as old as the railroad.

i'm sure someone told me

to get out of there.

it was no place for a kid.

as trains would whizz by.

don't know what messages

were sent and received by code.

could have been to send flowers.

i know it was long distance.

now, even today

the whole set up

remains a long,

long distance.

Antonio Salvatore 2

not absolutely, but maybe,
and that's very close.
poetry, like dialogue,
doesn't read as literature.

that was my disclaimer
prelude to say
of a thousand poems here
the most sought is

the one about my brief encounter
with renowned violinist Antonio Salvatore.
if we met again we
wouldn't know each other

it was a good day for both of us;
life has that happen occasionally;
ducks in a row
and pleasant times occur.


5 years ago we met on a bus,
chatted, end of story, basis for poem.
http://warmingtrend27.blogspot.it/2010/04/antonio-salvatore.html