the best

the wellness of being,
goodness in all respects
remains a narrow line
to travel upon

to shift slightly
adjusting temperament
in kindness
and giving

in full field
out in the open, on my honor,
although it's a mess
we're all doing the best we can



I'm still working on the above. I read it again this morning and it didn't read well. It changed, or I changed. It didn't work. I changed the title and a few words and then I pushed it out the door anyway. I guess that's the best I can do today.

four a.m.

i wake to put on neat earphones
with fresh batteries
and hear four a.m. radio
news from the BBC
fighting in the Congo, a report live from Deli
China in the headlines, corrupt leaders everywhere
staggering economies, some with more than they can use
and taking more, cities overflowing,
the world in disarray

TV pictures run in my mind
of a tired young woman with a bucket
getting water from a hole dug in the ground
somewhere on the plains in Africa

she is too thin and wears rags
a poor child stands nearby watching
all is dusty
there are no pets
there is nothing extra for them
this is their water
this is their life

while i sleep in a clean warm bed
with a comforting blanket
a refrigerator in the next room
a shower in the morning
i’ll make coffee and toast
play a digital keyboard
plugged into my computer
and know that even twisting, darting, colorful birds
under white clouds and radiant blue skies
will not turn a head
will pass unnoticed
by so many struggling each day to survive

i cannot help them directly
but i can notice
and compassion is a first step
toward resolution

admit they exist

Franco

Franco is of indeterminate age
past mid everything, some wrinkles and thin,
of the seedy man who looks dangerous it’s difficult to say more
dull winter layers of tired clothing deceive

he fell into a coma some years ago
friend Alberto visited him in hospital
a watchful grave nurse shook her head
there was little hope afforded him

Alberto approached where the patient appeared clean and comfortable
as the nurse stepped out to leave mournful respect
the dormant Franco lifted an eye and whispered
“I’’m not gong to die, Alberto.”

and so Franco lumbers on, helping the piazza flower venders
moving things, making deliveries on stiffening legs
eyes that give him problems,
drinks too much when inclined, when he has money enough

his mumbled Roman dialect across
lips holding a burning cigarette,
looking up in apparent sneering smile over broken teeth
“sun is warm, the day is good”

pond in the woodlands

carefully I trod
amid bent blue grass and weeds
on low rolling bubbles of hills
around a dark pond

peppered with wild life
rippled in fishes
who keep eyes to the surface
watching bugs circle

when touching down,
with no warning become
a snack in a snap,
a quick fish’s morsel

in this natural chalice
harvesting life
teaming with chance,
is nature’s balance

In The News Reflecting Our Ways in These Days

Swedish princess to marry fitness trainer

with man

times are most difficult
going through a lot
she’s working way too much these days
and always with undue stress
it takes all she’s got

so very hard her life
handling however she can
she is not with child, you see,
much worse, she married him,
she’s with man

nightime thought

resembling a wad of socks
little mental rockets explode,
shoot off then drop like rocks
into the back side pockets
of my mind

many engraved with happy faces
others wrapped, still sleeping
patiently wait to be taken out
each a little frosted cake
with a prize
in the middle

overnight

overnight
when sleek kitties creep under fences
lone dogs will bay
at a sound or a scent

moonless, under cover of darkness
stars are blocked by thick waving arms of trees
and flying vaporous clouds
a witches eve for brews and fires

on shallow brown river water’s edge
a large white bird is napping
as some do, standing on one foot
with head tucked under wing

above, the back road traffic has ended
and directly below the bridge
silvery stream water gurgles
then overhead a streak, the long white,
a lone gull shooting swift as an arrow on the wind

while some animals prowl night away
others sleep, practically smiling
dreaming of their friends and family
waiting for the morrow, sun again

i have no need to worry

i have no need to worry
my fortune's not behind me
this is what i have
and i’m sharing it with you

i wrote the Magna Carta
the sky i painted blue
you’ll always be another
God sleeps at night with you

steel hauled on rail
sent from man to man
the California grey on sail
to southern waters under sun

water cycles from air to sea through me
one night i made it rain
you are written in nature’s melodies
do you know that you remind me?

i hear the distant running dogs bark
and choose not to run again
by my means i remain this person
and you are able to run the way you do

if i write stories

if i write stories
they won’t be scary
only fuzzy animals in mine
all of them will wink and smile

my happy birds will fly and sing,
joy they’ll carry near and far,
my creatures won’t eat people.
Steven King, wait in the car

way inner

can’t feel my face
by the grace that is saving us
in this place
where high above
stars ought to be over my head
on a night like this
I’ve got a ceiling instead
finding space
for glimmer
isn't easy

Roma Old and New

twenty-five hundred years
of lost objects, spit and trash
split and bashed,
devils and angels
corners and angles
ground under the firmament
by carts, tramping feet and chariots,
covered by layers of stone and tears
worn smooth, remodeled, invaded,
sweat upon, bloodied on,
beaten down, burned,
demolished, polished and paraded over,
made new again

into the boring years and motorcars
when time passes evenly, eventually
like watching a candle burn,
artisans , widows, beggars and whores
Publicans, demogogues, farmers and stores
teachers, dentists and shopkeepers daughters
make bread, make wine
tend the animals
keep them fed and in line

crushed stone rolls well and blows like dust
in the wind on the sweeping wings of time
theirs, yours and now mine,
clamor carries on forever
in the magnificence of proper order
the significance of restructure,
honorable poets, let us drink to life
sing songs with laughter,
chatter long and loud and stall the vandals

dreams of flying

M. dreams of flying
soaring, looping in joy
picking lovely bright blue leaves
from the tops of the trees

I dream of flying
and I’m packed up to my eyes
with no leg room, jammed between
two sweating, farting, bad breath fat guys

letter to you

like a letter to you
it’s practically personal when I say
how’s it going? You doing okay?
take car of yourself, someone has to

we’re doing fine, the best we can
I said to take car but I meant take care, cause i was thinking
to mention we bought a car
did I tell you before?

we know our way around the city well because
we know the bus lines from years of practice riding
we just don’t drive where the tram goes
they go on tracks, and so far we don’t

I’d write a poem with birds and flowers
but we live our hours in the city
so this is filled with double parking and pedestrians
still, it’s so very stone old that it’s kind of pretty

hey, I’ve got to go now
time to turn down the lamps
I know this is a strange way to write you
but I’ve saved on the stamps

certainly

do your daily deeds
take care of the needs
of those that depend on you
to do the best you can

if all begins to unravel
or gets rough around the edges
no matter, you continue,
turn uncertainty into certainly

it’s the only way, everyday,
you know it‘s true
that’s how life goes, so keep it up,
allow someone to count on you

in motion

in motion, a million wiggling amoebae
in the overflowing Petri dish
of cell phone talkers, rushing shoppers,
urgent motorcycles,
scooters, bicycles,
cars, trucks breathing fire,
varied species of shiny multicolored metal rhinos in commotion

once jaywalking in front of a giant i fell
broke my arm in three places
got up quickly
the bus elected to brake
and not hit me

most dogs on leashes pull owners,
while sensible cats choose not to run
remain near home
lick themselves senseless asleep in Rome warm sun
and rarely break anything

weather map

oh, it could be many reasons,
but i choose the official Italian
Government issued weather maps
to drive me up the wall, daily

a typical day is coming our way
the latest weather map shows
forty-six suns over Italy,
4 suns over Sardegna, seven over Sicily

Dress properly and have a nice day.

not by the clock

not by the clock
nor sun’s final ray
the arch of the moon,
or shadows of what others say

will i change pace
for what I write
tumbling, veering, loose in space
off to places beyond sight

freely setting it’s own course
running when and where it might,
a sleek dark horse takes me where i go
with no remorse, I sleep well at night

dreamed i was

i dreamed i was someone else, you see
i said my name
and it wasn’t the same
when i looked she was where she ought to be

it never before happened to me
cause i was in the right place
it must have been a case
of mistaken identity

intention

friend Tom called to mention
i didn’t post a poem that day
well, he’d missed mine, i’d say
and every day was my intention

it had been a year then i forgot,
simply, other things were going on
i wasn’t playing the sleeping pawn
a prognosticator i am not

i missed a day without remorse
now i’ll hop back on track
and write a stack
of poems, you see, i will, of course