Calcata

this cool march morning
mid week on a stone mountain top
high up and off the beaten route to anywhere
with one way in, and one way out

pass under the arch
to enter the town
then on three sides
it’s a straight drop down

pretty as it could be and so very old
we drove there for another look
at the bohemian artsy haven of Calcata

prices there are high to live and buy
and there are few stores,
what you find for sale are
hand-made craft items for tourists,
locals seeking necessities must drive a ways

the village we saw was the real one,
out of season, worn grey, cold stone dead,
lonely, cool and needing

then this and every weekend
the curious will come

some other day, another season
even we may return
with the reason of showing friends
what ancient, remote, quaint
and wonderful can look like

for the children

teachers are good people
to put up with groups of children
who are aptly regarded as a handful

we mustn’t whip education at a fever pace
until it’s homogenized, generalized,
historically meaningless to them

we can help at home by passing along
lessons learned from our past, personal stories,
events from our family elder’s lives

so what lesson do i give?,
my grandchildren are spinning so fast
they couldn’t hear me if i knew what to say

perhaps i’ve written something here for them,
or perhaps their children will read it, some other year,
they’ll figure out life's mysteries when they’re ready

when they wonder and amaze
about who they are
and what we went through to get here

before TV and computers took all of our time
when sunset and a rainbow
and music played at home was family entertainment

when the evening sky filled with brilliant stars
horsepower was hitched to a wagon
and every barn had hand tools and a saddle

when we made promises
and did our best to keep them,
while looking forward to the challenges of tomorrow

weather broke

winter snapped
like an old branch
a bird tried to sit on
maybe wind kicked it
a cat licked it
or a dog dragged it
cause the stick made it’s way
down the bank
got into the river
and floated away

part of me
must have gone along
for the ride
cause I feel the change
right here
deep inside

do you want toast

do you want toast?
this is morning, the weekend
and we always have toast
both of us, and two coffees
always - as in everyday,
not only weekends

yet she asks as if it’s a new idea that
just crawled over the top rim
and dropped into the cookie jar of her mind
metaphysically speaking, no disrespect intended

of course, she wants toast,
always does,
she thinks of toast first,
every time

says she wants toast then
asks me if i want toast
and then i say yes, i'll have toast
that’s how it goes

and then i rose up and made...wait!
i didn’t rise like an ascension of angels
although i understand why you might think it
i plain got up, as from sitting is to standing

and then made a second coffee
for each of us
cause it just hit me in a flash to do that
it seemed a fine idea
albeit within the scripted and rehearsed
tangled woven bounds of the ordinary




x

city life

city life has so many faces
walking, standing, waiting,
on and off the buses
in and out of stores
you won’t see them all

when i was just about home
heading down a narrow way
a face in the crowd startled me
it was the recognition of a friend
that had caught me off guard
a friend now deceased
uncanny the resemblance
at first glance

stopping just ahead of me,
this man had his keys out for a door
same graying hair, same smooth movements,
equally well-dressed,

and as his head turned
he first casually looked my way,
then when his glance caught me
he peered directly into my eyes

i slowed my steps
and he smiled, first in apparent recognition
then his look changed to something else
that i couldn’t read,

we exchanged nods then greetings
i thought you were someone i knew, i explained
so did i, he said, you remind me a lot of a dear friend
we used to meet for a drink at that bar near the corner
he live in this neighborhood for quite a while,
then passed away a few years ago

how it began, went looking

checked for used cars on line
then went to a showroom,
two buses and a tram later
we were there

walked around ten minutes
looked at stickers on car windows
then went to our favorite
Indian fast food restaurant

to celebrate, hurray,
we went looking!
many long journeys begin before
you get in your car, or have one

D.S. Al Fine

large and growing
the net brings change,
knowledge disseminates
for the world that will be




it is not important
flowers know
it is the sun
they wait for

fiction is stranger than truth

the one who said truth
is stranger than fiction
brought cookies, apples or flowers
to the teacher everyday

wagged his hand so much
trying to answer all the questions
that he lost blood circulation in his arm
they nearly had to amputate

always had hair evenly parted on the same side
wore a cute little red sport coat
kept it neatly buttoned
even on the playground

never believed in
monsters from space
tried to be the peacemaker when
we played cowboys and Indians

in short, was a dullard
possessed absolutely
not so much as a speck
of imagination whatsoever

ran under a tree in a thunderstorm
was struck by lightening
six times and was toast
I do so verify

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

Walker - one wholey knight

Walker Texas ranger in Italian
with the volume down
no messing around
the man’s a stallion

the show starts with a mess of guys
getting beat up by the ranger
and other helpers, no stranger
than the fact that no one dies

the old man sneezes
they take him to hospital
where he wears his hat, sitting tall
in bed, i mean, Jesus,

he stays there until he mends
walker beats up more of the bad
fellows, and i’m glad
i don’t watch until the program ends

i know the final score
Walker beats up everyone bad
and of this i’m glad
i’ve seen the show before

how can i best explain

how can i best explain
the trees and trails
the woods with clean water hills
that i knew in my youth

oh, somewhere there is a partial picture
that shows a wooded area
but it doesn’t taste of seasons
it doesn’t show the turtles in fall
the thin ice of winter
pollywogs in spring
or sasafrass roots in summer

when we were ten we listened to the frogs
in the forgotten pond
we dug forts and swung on vines
walked over the creek on the trunk of fallen giants

our highway was an overgrown remnant of
the old street-car bed
we knew it well, we read its signs
a garter snake, a portion of broken tie
the occasional bend

i may never mention it again
but hope some day to take you there

teach the children

if my kid’s kids lived next door door
instead of next moon moon
i’d stop in and say hi or they would
i’d teach them to do and quietly enjoy

to notice birds watching them
even the cat who sometimes isn’t really sleeping
keeps an eye on them
i’d try, i would, but example is the only way

for kids do as their parents
mine are destined
to continue the line
of doing lucky well

they have grown middle aged now
with families of their own
and live far away
my teaching is over

click, click

i'll put it here for you
once in a while we’ll click
you and i click. . . click,
click, rolling the same track

there is no order
no turning back on the blog
keep sifting drifting through
find something in the fog written for you

too bad it’s not leather bound
so you could hear the click of turning pages
and feel the weight of thick
paper on your fingers as you leaf

until then, brief poems will continue
to fall like drips from a faucet
into a pan – dap – dip –dap
scroll on down the hall amici, you can

all roads lead to Rome, more or less

a partial sun sparkle through bright clouds
is fine for a drive out of the city
until time to return becomes a curious
many hilled meander, for all roads
lead to Rome, or so it appears
according to all road signs

believing the signs can get you lost,
run you in circles, nick your patience,
rob you of hope, reroute you once
or twice through the nearby states of
confusion and despair before you
finally bumble-roam home into Rome

got gas, the cook-with kind

went to the bombola man
he sells gas, the cook-with kind
from his store on the corner,
an old, old man and his wife
that’s their life, serving this community

how much do I need?
I begin to put my hand to indicate the level of the tank
he says thirty euro and I tell him yes
does the doorbell work? cause the guys rings it
then I’ll run down to let him in
no problem, i know I’ll hear the motorino
and be at the door before he is,

gas me up baby, we want it now
got to make coffee,
need some hot chow
gas me up baby, do it now, do it now

1502 and now

the document for this building where we live
shows that in 1502 the first two floors were erected,
three floors above were added later


early morning can be silent
here in the center of Rome
whose blocks and alleyways have known the ages

robust characters that laughed and cried,
lived and died here are forgotten,
covered in the dust to which they have returned

of them i feel not a trace
though i stand in their stead,
walk in their space,
have taken as mine their place
of joys and sorrows,
yesterday's tomorrows

there are no echoes of lingering bygone voices
in these halls of musty deeds, worn life pages
that have long passed along these walls
rubbed thoroughly into the mists of gone ages,

into that silence of the night
I will follow

good blue

absoblulutely skyness
all over the place
depths in waves
on my arms, my face,
blue and beyond I’d say

that sort of day we had
not so cold, not so bad
you’d like it, I know you’d do
and I mean it, really,
very blue

Daws Butler

Daws was a friend of mine
one fun, wacky, hard working, intelligent guy
loving creativity and exuding it
in every way, at all times, for everyone
truly one of the best

recently i was lacking in something,
feeling cast distant from my desire to play music,
write poetry, write other things, do art,
unable to burst forth with things
then i thought of Daws, my mentor, my friend
That’s what it is, i miss the guy

the good spark, absolutely, one of the best,
talented and giving, loving life,
never one to criticize, always quick to encourage,
he issued all the license to have fun,

he was an inspiration for creativity and humor,
humor, go ahead, say it again, be redundant,
Daws would, then make a face or do a funny voice

it was wonderful having spent time with him,
Daws knew what side his toast was buttered on
and if he’d put an elbow in it, he’d look sad
say, “oh, yuck!” in such an exaggerated way
just to get you to laugh

sorted photos

been a while since I’ve seen the
old times, the different places,
if everyone has taken a thousand pix,
let’s call them that, pix,

and we are going on seven billion people,
that comes to . . . uh, let me see, let me see
exactly more images than we have to save
rev ‘em up

open the flood gates of our drawers
and cardboard boxes on closet floors and free them,
let that stack of birthday faces and holiday places tumble
build houses out of them

course now they’re on digital files, a load of
air ball pie, pre-evaporated and doesn’t exist anyway,
so why did I spend Saturday night sorting
when i could have been cavorting?

drove out

drove out of the center of Roma,
a big deal to vacate our precious street parking spot,
then arrived in a stone city with kitties,
topped with a castle on a hill,
Palombara Sabina,
it only took an hour
to drive six hundred years into the past

following an hour walk around
we stopped at a restaurant on the way home
with two dozen hunters inside in camouflage suits
we wondered if it was safe to go in

as we got out of the car in the parking lot
three more hunters were getting out of their tank,
i mean “car”, they also wore head to toe camouflage
and didn’t smile

we asked them if the restaurant was open,
maybe they were having a secret meeting,
they said sure, and to go right in,
i said “we don’t have any costumes.”
they laughed instead of shooting us

yes we ate well,
the best lasagna of the ages
drove safely back to Rome
and found a parking space
a minute walk from home

tonight we sipped amaro
and talked about tomorrow

in line

two of my friends lost their moms this month
one, and then the other,
mine went a few years ago,
all the dads have been gone a while

my wife called the parents a buffer,
without them
we’ve all stepped up,
and we’re at the head of the line

on the phone Les mentioned school
how our town was, who we were
we knew it all so well,
and how way back then
is only a mind’s blink away
in first grade I was sent to stand in the hall
for pulling her pigtails in class

way, way back then, in that other time
we weren’t aware how young we were
during the summers of fun, the apples of fall,
crisp winters, happy buoyant beginnings of spring
the teachers, classmates, dances
the whole thing whizzing by
in the tempo of a Souza march
every bit of life rang rain water sparkling clear
with ups and downs, and most often, fine times

as pages turn somehow
and here we stand
look at us, we are
those same kids we remember,
older now,
next in line

time for

reading and writing
all I have time for
what am I slighting?
where is the fun?

still I can’t get it all done
it seems either, or
one after the other
from sun to sun

beauty

beauty without
something behind it
is a thoroughbred
never trained

roll on until you coast

I have to think about this. What I am doing here? Wait, It’s not what you think. I know I’m writing brief things each day. I am talking about the how as much as the what.

A different site is one option, because it’s hard to think of longer poems on more than one page of the computer. Then you have to scroll down. No one in their right mind wants to get into a lot of scrolling. Based on the unpublished comments to this blog however, i have a few readers ripe for an all night scrollathon.

So, I need pieces of paper with poems printed on – what normal people call a book. On the blog you have to read the two or three parts of a story backwards. That is a problem that needs resolution from the techies of this cyberworld.

Or I could use a guy standing on a hill reciting my poems - some other guy, not me. How about Peter O’toole in his youth? He can do it cause a blog is like a dream, isn’t it? I just dream it up and it comes about? Or what?



sailing to the coast
on a silver ghost
buckle up in motion
they pour that magic potion
movies on a jet plane
the hero’s
singing in the rain

now, it’s a primo flight
gonna fly all night
when she brought my tray
i heard her walk away and say
life is but a dream
a matter of time
now you've made the scene
so you may as well unwind
go ahead and dine
on crackers, avocados, cheese and California wine

for the better

Obama is changing the world for the better
it is inevitable, for as you know,
in all organizations
things trickle down from the top

Obama is atop a worldly big one
good for him and good
for the rest of us
the good will trickle down

dark eight

dark, eight in the rain
on a goodies run in the glare
Saturday night, doin’ it right
lamp light here and there

carefully of course, not to fall again
yesterday, a stairs slip may have broken my hand
saved the pizzas though
i’ll have an x-ray if the hand stays swollen

oh, yes, the rain run tonight,
saw a hunched dripping guy
walking by, said hi, Giancarlo
the optometrist round the corner

been to him over the years,
makes me feel the local I am
wandering Roma alleys in the dark
out on a lark cause we gave in,

she had a sore throat,
so i put on my coat and did the need
with good thought and speed
brought home the chocolate

thick and the lean

the thick and the lean times
turn over like phases of the moon
riding sure and steady,
change be along soon,
go ahead look round,
stay at the ready
for the next roll of the lots
is coming down
be sure with the toll,
put coins in the slot,
cause you’re on a roll
pay up, pay out,
like it or not
it’s what you’ve got

do not open any attachments

when writing emails is launching
rockets to the wind onto far mountain
old pictures in a drawer, stacked in a file
someday to be sorted,

the unidentified guy in the photo, throw him away
looks like uncle whatshisname
clean it up, game starts in half an hour
a lot of billion people, some dressed in rags,
some searching for the next meal
and we shoot emails into the wind onto far mountain
wondering which sweater goes
best with the rest

of your costume, hit reply and pass it on, into the nether
suddenly she really needs that picture of Uncle Bart
i thought his name was Mark, I threw it away
squirrel looking with a mustache? right?
pack it up, stack ‘em up, start over

Information

i phone information to get information
lousy nondescript music crackles
then, without pause or warning
a rapid, highly distorted recorded voice
speaks quickly and ends with press one,
followed by another quick garbled sentence,
then press two, etc. three and four

I called again
the second time through I still understand nothing
but took a guess and pressed four
twice a live guy hangs up on me
the third time through a woman was helpful
see, it works, if you are willing
to struggle and persist

car

we bought a car
maybe blue, maybe green
we’re not sure,
in the photos it's shiny metallic
looks like new
it's nine years old

got title and insurance and then
on the second try, a parking permit
because the first time i went to get a parking
permit for my car i didn’t bring
a registered copy of my apartment contract
registration tax having been paid
how silly of me
or how silly of the bureaucrats of Italy
who have difficulty collecting tax,
but that's another poem

we’ll take possession today
drive it and get the feel
yes, bought it without driving it

see how it goes, learn new things
then park it on the street
until we figure something better

meanwhile, it will change our life
we’ll see what that means
we have no idea what that means

Obama

when our leader steps forward
all aboard will rise to his intelligence,
drawing us forward
in power to sweep the decks,
turn the ship around,
guide us right again

into the wind and against perils
to earn respect
find cause and direction,
renew belief in goodness,
and as it comes down from the top
so we will rise for the occasion

pause

I could use a pause
so this doesn’t become a diary
today I was going to say I forgot
the type of acid we use in engraving

then woke knowing it’s muratic acid
in either six to one
or twelve to one solutions diluted with water,
but didn’t know whythis could be poetry

unless it made me sad
and I cried about it
then would it be poetry? another thing,
does poetry end with question marks?

new word day

longren is out to be a word
i put it there, pushed it into the cold
or is it longeren, or longern?

here under a tree
with a dish for food
another with water

long low lengthy days of winter
when sun sleeps longern i do
i know it does

it happens in Roma

it happens in Roma, chance encounters with people we know
far from their usual place in the city
today it was our neighbor on his bicycle who stopped and chatted,
near the old book market by Piazza del Popolo

a few minutes before
we had taken the little electric bus to the Villa Borghese Park
so my lovely could do seven laps on the walking track
days before she was walking, looking at the
wild parrots in he tree when she fell,
folded up like a ham sandwich
and skidded in the gravel

today i lumbered one lap then stood
near the road noticing the older couple
slowly passing a few feet away, with unobtrusive security men,
one off on each side, two more farther behind,
it was Giorgio Napolitano the President of the Republic of Italy
of the few people in that part of the park
maybe half knew who he was
that’s how it goes in Roma
we use a little space and share it with others

our time

taking our time, soaking up what we have
see how it goes,
start something new
shake off the woes

don’t have to make plans
do the best we can, cause it keeps flying at you
all new and moving
can you feel it? hopping, spinning, grooving

while morning rain falls, or it’s cold and snowy where you are
winter here, summer there when you flip around the globe
riding the Internet, the information highway
getting bigger, exponentially

when i was a kid we never even dreamed it would be like this
and going faster wider, deeper, non-stop
makes my heart seem small to me
when I read a book I get off the roll for a while

then come back to get food and pay bills
keeping up day to day
a shower and clean clothes
more and the less, that’s how it goes

a note like this will tell you
that through it all I am still thinking of you
and hoping you keep doing your best
cause it’s changing and there are few choices

except to keep running like my wind up clocks that tick again
the same song, one note after another
tick, tick, tick, tick
crack out some sunshine and smile, keep loving

roma winter

bleak cold rainy days this winter
we have had our portion dished
lined back to back two months now
the river has flooded once already

slippery streets remain awash
umbrellas tattered from overuse
talk is quick to friends you meet
bring home pants cuffs soaked

poor time to ride a bicycle
more grey time spent lights on indoors,
looking out to watch clean drops splash
good period as flowers prepare for spring

Nico in the Piazza

throwing crumbled bits of bread into a
cloud of pigeons that form from nowhere
seemingly magically on the cobblestones at his feet
here in the piazza where the action of others
swirls around us

to whom i am a large blurriness
Nico, stands erect on his five foot two frame,
scant inches from my face he speaks
bouncing a bit, ready to burst with energy
his longish wiry white beard jiggles

i notice the bulging layers of sweaters,
his dark ancient sporty coat,
while topping his head is a
wintery wool sea farer’s cap

at a point i interrupt his dissertation on nature
to ask what he is doing in these days with his time,
his life work, he reiterates, had been varied
acrobat, artist, dancer, always within the arts

now he is thinking about the mysteries on the globe
that's how he put it, forming one with his hands as he spoke
with a smile on his face he says nature,
he thinks about nature and the mysteries,
using nods of his head to show how much he means exactly that

last year i wrote about Nico
click here to read that piece

609

609 and I always think of the current one
the one I’m looking at
like it’s the only one,
no time to think about it,
yet every number flashes, 611, 614,
so many mornings I have seen those numbers

oh, they’re there, all right,
whether I see them or not,
wake up times
get ready for work,
going to catch a plane time

not only another morning,
my morning yesterday,
last week
a series of mornings
every morning
that led last week to last month,
back to last year, five years,
ten,
to my youth, then my father’s youth and his father’s,
his father’s father’s, and beyond,

instead of seeing a new one each time
it’s the same one over
609, look, there it is again,
the same repeating
on this long line I’m on,
we’re on,
with grandpa there, and his grandpa,
me on the other, not the end,
somewhere in the middle,
cause it’s a very long line,
out on the line
that goes back and back ,
all the way back to dinosaurs and the first sun of dawn
609

think it

if we think it,
it can be so
there’s much to do though,
a long way to go

when you have the idea,
with merely that nugget
you begin putting it together
float that dream until it’s light as a feather

let it soar, twist then meld
into a solid, cooled and jelled,
roll on away, butter babies,
roll on away home, roll all the way home

up and down

got up at four
as i’ve done before
had to squeeze myself twice
to believe it

raring to go
but wouldn’t you know
ran out of gas
no fire below

back in bed at five
felt barely alive
fell fast asleep
to relieve it

in a pile
ants look the same,
soulless are they?
tell me about it

cause they don’t bow their heads to pray?
until you study them under a church pew
with a microscope
you don’t know for sure what they do

well, I suppose some enterprising lad or lass
would have squealed the news by now
so we can probably bet on the fact
that ants apparently don’t appear to pray

plans

we make our plans
and choose our actions
sometimes based on reality
often times on dreams

the attractions to our suit
can be distractions to the root
not tailored to patterns
that follow the seams

a portion of careless thought
plus a dash of hurry
often results in more
than a full day's worth of worry

Salute to Diddley

want to try me shopping?
I’ll keep you hopping
come along, tap into my head
easily said,
I’m looking now
while I push the cart
with all my heart
cause my wife says
when I walk along
what I see is Diddley
it must be a natural ability

she’s sure of it
no messing around
her reasoning’s right
her judgment sound
so quietly now
I am seeking bound
did you like that, seeking bound?
wait a minute, I have to finish,

cheese? of course I can find some
and pick one out? are you ready for that?
did Yeats really start this way?
run forward, troops, with the big guns and
fire when you are ready, Gridley
have no doubt, I’ll point it out,
for i see Diddley

reflection

I glanced into the mirror
as I turned out the light
to quite a surprise before my eyes
the face that I saw was my father
why I saw you was a mystery
how’d you come back out of history
where other generations never known
and hardly shown, are hidden in reflection

you’re looking good as you should
and younger than I recall
here’s looking at you old man
thanks to you i do what I can
and remembering, Father, how long you worked for us all
we didn’t vacation and I never knew the difference
you had work to do and I grew up just the same
and maybe better for it

well, good to see you again
to be reminded of your existence
and how it was, when it was
under your persistence
and occasional insistence
here’s to you again, old man, my dad
and I’ll keep my chin up

dream rider mine

how can you be so near,
yet so far away from me,
my petition to the heavens
calls for the full measure of you
to pass by slowly in my dreams
where clouds lift as it seems
pleasure lives anew
within sight of you

the sound of your voice
the light in your eyes awakening
to your smile,
makes all time worth while

how very sweet you are
my shining star
a gleaming heavenly light,
calming attraction for my heart,
my only treasure
would be the pleasure
of your smile
when your eyes meet mine

baby snug

baby snug and packed in
wadded and stuffed
to keep warm in the cold
sights are seeds in their heads
glazed over without deep thought

this is the time
to be totted in
mom and dad comfort
before the struggle begins
no wonder kids are cute
wrapped in a blanket
they ought to be

time's driftin'

times drifting by the river
running dirty in the winter
hiding out from a January rain
backed up to the window again

two drifters by the water
lonely son and no one’s daughter
a couple of days to set them at ease
a couple of friends who just do as they please

could have worn the whole redwood deck out
waiting there for the time to checkout
two drifters by the water
lonely son and no one’s daughter
time’s driftin', driftin'

coronation

queen gets crowned
sounds like a comedy thing,
it was a moment i saw on TV
2 June, l953 I was eight,
and even to a kid like me
she looked like a girl

that was our first TV,
small, fuzzy black and white,
with a round screen
like a heavy vase for a carnival goldfish
it was extraordinary for us to
watch an event in England
from our living room in Ohio

now look at technology growing exponentially,
even that word didn't mean anything to us,
while a google was a hypothetical number one with
a million zeros behind it,
watch your back,
what's coming
is going to amaze you

New Year's Daze

i am running out of material
down to tables and chairs and little used appliances
threw it all out the fourth floor window at
midnight the way peasants
threw slop never mind, are you with me?
like brail on a dark hall to guide the way,
keep one hand on the wall and “stay close to
the candles the stairway can be treacherous”
(Mel Brooks - Young Frankenstein 1974)

so we slept long this morn, definitely not
as a result of partying too much,
hell we ran out of psilocybin before supper and the explosions,
but from silence that begun this day,
due to a lack of services running on city streets,
no cars or buses nor people walking, or children calling
because sleeping was long and hearty like
a great bear in a winter cave
following a night of total cheer and merrymaking

but from – I liked that
but from, butt from
but from, butt from, fight, fight, win

so allow me to go through this four hundred yards
of wadded multicolored ribbon I just tripped upon
in the middle of the room that could have been an illusion
resulting in inclusion
for the final solution
of my repertoire
propping up material
that’s around
and dripping in the hard rain
the only sound on this day
that’s left around
not run aground
still dripping down
pounding hard, ricocheting,
climbing over each other and flowing
to be first to enter
the bottomless drain

pure air

pure air today, aria pura oggi
depth of perception from a bus window
possible on a clean air day,
after long rains, winds off the Med,
no car traffic for several days of holiday
is atmosphere sharpened that turns back time
to an earlier era, creating a 3-D world again

at Piazza della Repubblica I looked to the roof of the
church built over the ancient baths of Diocletian
the form atop resembled a giant cartoon white duck
what the hell is going on? modern art?
as the bus turned again near the train terminal
i looked back, facing directly the front of the church,
at the pinnacle i could see the duck was now a large white cross,

the bus was clean rolling, smooth stopping
with no hitch, other than the under one skin head,
aka a child under one, who bellowed resistance,
also aboard, a plethora of raggazzi, many youth,
one sat next to M. and chewed his nails non-stop, as if famished,

now i thought of a cute young blonde girl who used to walk her
pet duck around the block every day,
why she thought the duck needed good legs, i never asked
having no interest in her duck,
maybe it was good for the ducks mind,
it certainly was good for mine

hey, let’s pack up ’08 like fish in a newspaper
take on 09, already lined up and waiting

addendum:

In Italian scarpe means shoe. The day after the guy threw the shoes I saw a newspaper headline that read “scarpe diem.” Hey, I’m done and I probably won’t write again, until tomorrow.

prehensile union

now forming , and you can be a member
of the greatest union on earth
to coalesce all of mankind for the first time,
completely without prejudice
men , women and children, any race, creed and bank account
are welcome to the prehensile union,

come on, take a breather
sorry: no dogs or cats and no monkeys either

and if everyone on earth will send me a penny i’ll serve
as Honorary Fabricator and token Rich Human
that means i won’t have to take my shoes off
or spread my toes to board an airplane.
and if i see you somewhere i’ll buy you an ice cream

. . . addendum:
i like monkeys myself,
at least i think i do, although
i’ve never met one
except that one who lives on the top floor
and he’s more of an ass than a monkey

keeps going

she would throw her stuff in the car and go to her sister’s
how much abuse did he think she’d take
driving a damn bus this size in city traffic wasn’t easy
didn’t the bitch ever think about that

did she think i was having fun all day?
with difficulty the old woman boarded
and a young woman offered her a seat
of course she still was of sound mind,

would pay more attention this time and not miss her stop
it’s so inconvenient, not to mention how
difficult to find her way back
the kid was examining three dress shirts he had grabbed

hopefully no one saw him get on this bus
they’re not his size, so his might just
dump them on the floor and split
the guy in the back wouldn’t have been so drunk

if he had money to eat
finding a start isn’t easy when you don’t know where to go
at least he can sleep and ride where it’s warm
until they throw him off

when i got on the bus i was immediately uncomfortable
had to move forward to get away from the stench of that bum
does he deliberately run over pot holes and
slam the brakes so hard

bouncing around,
a scraping sound, we just side swiped a double-parked car
i’m sure of it, i heard it and he didn’t stop,
still going, everything keeps going

options

often i’ll take the option
to recall some of the days
and i’ll imagine how your doing
so far away

maybe there is no answer
there’s so little to say
there’s just a feeling that we live with
even that is going to go someday

going through the paces
very empty spaces with new people around me
we’ll both pick up, find new luck
it’s all meant to be

maybe there is no answer
but i’ll recall your words of fire,
i’ll imagine the nights I held you
and played in strong desire

how easy it would be to pick up the phone
when i have you on mind
we’d just remember then, and say the same old things again
so, babe, maybe some other time

later there will be another,
i‘ll ask her to stay
but I’ll imagine how you’re doing,
oh, so far away, so very far away

the 116

took the 116 electric,
the little bus,
didn’t really take it,
just rode on it actually,
it already had a driver

went to the bank,
not the river this time,
the one with the money,
had dealings to do
alas, not high finance
just paying the rent

Antonio at his desk
in striped open collar shirt and stylish wide
tie with a dash of color, two phones going
tiny beads of sweat on his forehead,
kept answering calls, wanted a smoke
secretaries dashed in and out
saying words, passing papers
as he assisted me, now pointing where to sign,
and as we talked I had the feeling
he’d rather be off somewhere on vacation
perhaps fishing, but even the thought was out of the question
where I sat opposite him, watching him perspire lightly
the women coming in and out speaking rapid abbreviated Italian
It flashes to me that I was long ago Ohio born,
grew up with trees near the wandering river
and bushes and dusty paths through light woods that skirted town
a milk man that delivered to our porch and TV in it’s black
and white small round screen infancy
he pointed, I signed again, we shook hands when I left

later, while looking for poems
I saw a few on the bus,
poets themselves,
walking upright, for the most part
leaning, some of them
just hanging on,
searching for words,
storybook creatures,
ready for animation,
they need only the words,
and probably deserve a few

passed by San Silvestro,
where we took Tom and Jul in the Spring
to see John the Baptist’s head,
and other things including graffiti
from two thousand years ago,
preserved by the church
because it was carved in stone,
so remember that,
if you want your graffiti to last

from our window

let me put you in our window
in the old center of Roma, not on display,
just looking out where there’s action by day,
revelers by night, absolute quiet near dawn

under that arch and through the alley,
stands the Cancelleria, built upon fourth century ruins,
a grand church office, the first to be built in the new renaissance style,
fifteen years in the building, finished in 1495

when they were assembling that ivory travertine edifice,
the workers lived here, on this street,
an historical architect explained to me
they didn’t plan all of these old buildings

in the beginning these buildings where we live now.
were shacks, hastily built and covered with a tarp
then a roof was added later, and when they needed more,
they build a second floor, then a third, and yet it stands

look there, that guy with red pants passing now,
unkempt shoulder length and matted, thinning hair,
a beige sports coat over a tattered blue plaid sweater,
faded jeans, in unlashed dirty, scuffed work boots,

with a heavy gate he swaggers down our street,
oh my, oh my, a bohemian lifestyle prerequisite
to being someone, who wants to be
an important artist, or look like one

the guy is no Giancarlino
now he’s our local nutball artist,
come back in a hundred years and
you can read about him

sleigh dumped

I woke up with toys all over
knee deep in toys, Santa’s sled turned over
and dumped a mess of them all over
toys, toys all over

those lazy reindeer just stood around
didn’t pick up anything, no thumbs. ah, come on,
I’ve heard that one before, so I had to help pick up toys
so Santa could get on his way and fly all over of the world

I was going to ask him if he goes
to China and communist countries
but forgot and he was gone already
by the time I woke up

happy holidays

the world is kinder
people are happier
holidays have begun
welcome to ‘em, Kimosabe

now follow that star
stay light in the wind
and the loved ones you rode in with
happy holidays

Holiday Meal

the extended family around a grand table
awaited the feast to begin
in joy, much drinking and laughter

a chorus of oohs and aahhs while grandma
placed the golden plattered turkey
in the center of our festive throng

fine spirit abounded, then all lights went out
there was a scrambling, some shouts,
until a cry of pain did command

when the lights came on,
grandpa had tears in his eyes, a turkey leg
and seven forks in his hand



(This poem appeared on Twelve Days of Poetry
on the site Poets Who Blog.)

dream ride

the image of the name
flashed like a flame
now it’s a shame
not to recall

where, how, who it is,
what was happening and why,
I should have awakened and made a note
and written it upon the sky

debris on Wild Sleep River moved on,
floated tumbling, passed while I dreamed,
whatever so concerned me then
is not so important now, as it had seemed

festive weekend

in an old stone church one street over
an eighteen voice choir sang
hymns for the Holiday Season
from various countries, languages and centuries,
singers trained and well led

then to our local restaurant to get well fed,
pasta and wine amid crowded tables,
a final stop for a glass of wine at Juliano’s
the homey bar on our street
this was Saturday's evening treat

Sunday we went to Rome’s music auditorium
to hear the youth orchestra, near one hundred fifty in their unity
that played like the young masters they will be,
we applauded encouragement, they bowed joyful acceptance
an afternoon well spent for all

coffee to go

Juliano, I’ll have another Coffee Wombley, please
yeah, I don’t know either, just made it up
sounds Presidential, doesn’t it?
oh, and here's today's poem


after a night of solid slumber
roaming velvet treasure swirls
it’s a pleasure to emerge to exchange my
fogged over dream form
for this dogged down worn wrapping that I use everyday,
with substance enough to function,
to get another calendar page torn,
as back to the strife of life in this world I’m reborn


What’s that Juliano? Oh, thanks, you really think so?
but I didn’t spend hours on my hair,
it does it by itself,
I sleep spinning on my head

turn down the music
both hands on the wheel
take your time, remember to smile
you know that I know how you feel

if you want to know more
then buy the book
if you have to ask where
it's not worth the price,
one may question your judgment
and throw away twice
the dream cocoon you crawled out of
soggy, yet still crispy on the edges
have a nice day, Earthling
you too, Juliano

old

now I know why
old guys wear suspenders

cause there comes a time in life
when a man has no ass,

and that’s about the time
you finally realize
that you see more old drunks
than you do
old doctors

time to be wasting

awakened by the thunder boom
to start to another brutal rainy day,
below now, from the window i see
squatty dogs in sporty plaid slickers
out for a float and a crap
then home for a nap
while hard strung owners, with plastic bags,
chase down the street
before it gets away, faraway
before crap gets away,
a somber melody
in the key of life
for the eternal city

PWB Poetry for the Holidays

Happy I am to participate in Poets Who Blog Twelve Days of Poetry. Check them out, please. Say hello for me.

Happy Holidays,
Jack

the poor crazy lady

for her,
wherever she may be,
not like Heidi the locally known,
quite often drunken
homeless woman of Borgo Pio
who every week fell off the wagon
drank too much and then according to the news
finally died of complications relating to exposure
one extremely cold winter's night
in the doorway of Vatican Radio

this is another thing, something else
although she too was homeless
the poor crazy lady at Campo Dei Fiori,
gone now just a few months
I forget her name already,
stayed around the piazza for years,
maybe five, maybe six years,
moved from outside coffee bar table
to table to doorstep, with pen and paper
writing long notes, sewing, repairing her clothes
crocheted once in a while, or just sitting,
looking off, through and beyond

dressed inconspicuously, well enough,
sometimes had a crazy hat
didn’t drink to excess, an occasional beer

only once in a while she flipped out,
just a yell to hear herself,
for all to hear
a long wailing call, nothing more,
some said she yelled when she ran out of medicine
I don’t know if this is true, I think sometimes she yelled
because she felt like it

most always she was fine,
stayed around, a stray from another world,
observed others sometimes, but generally
didn’t see us, minded her own business
tourists didn’t notice her,
didn’t make a mess, kept to herself

when I inquired I heard they took her to hospital
I tried to find out more
no more of her story is known or spoken about
did she suddenly get worse in her behavior,
or did a chic store owner tire of her hanging around,
think it was bad for business?

they do come and they go
on the ever slow tide,
one day they appear,
stiff wooden ghost ships out of the mist,
greyed sails torn, half raised flag
from no discernable country
even in this aged piazza
of calls, vegetable stands, residents, and churches,
of restaurants, stores, shutters, cobblestone and old lamps
heat and damp, cold winds and early morning stillness
once in a while even fixtures are changed

a tear for what’s her name

like flying

they’re still talking about it and well we should
i didn’t vote for a prisoner of war
who doesn’t know he owns seven houses,
a hero is something else,

and i didn’t vote for cute skirt, dim light,
i’m an independent, always have been
and voted for youth and intelligence
we could use some of each

by the way,
now at presidential news conferences
reporters will be required to remove their shoes
and leave them at the door
think of it like flying,
it’s like flying

how to do economy

economy is like break fast cereal
you need about a hundred of them
lined up in big boxes, the bigger the better
wild animated characters, some animals
in bright primary colors, drawn with thick, sloppy lines,
large eyes, big teeth and grins
out of control, fearless, taking a chance
if they dance and play an instrument - that’s good

then a dull leader you can make fun of
funny looking, one who tries to be serious
names like healthy, lean and natural are good
as a rule - bears are better than elephants
add money and stir
if speech is necessary “create terms”
now you’re doing economy,
then get out before you’re caught

the old days

in the old days, say 1850,
when the barber shaved someone
did the local blacksmith make the razor
from the steel of wagon wheels?

Sheffield, England produced
straight steel razors, popular then,
they were often honed and stropped
you’ve seen it in the movies

here’s why it’s called the old days,
in 1850 the population of the
Unites States was 23 million
today urban Tokyo has 28 million

indians

indians lived where i lived
many years before
they taught their kids to hunt and fish
and painting passed their lore

when roads were only twigs bent
in winters severe
and fathers left for day, with sons,
to follow the wounded deer

indians lived where i lived
only many years before
when morning sun was sacred,
according to their lore

fires burned by the river in
cold nights, long and clear
strong in nature and in will
they stalked for food, the deer

i'd like to sleep under a tree
you and me
i'd like to sleep under a tree
just you and me

(yes my daughter, Catherine, when you were very young I wrote this song for your entertainment.)

so many, so much

many web sites
much information
to read and digest,
i keep it quick so
you can look and nod
then get on
with life

go read a book
write a book
eat a cookie,
this time of year
a four syllable word i like is
hibernation - something constructive:
eat a lot then sleep all winter

Renee Fleming

click on this to hear Renee Flemming sing O Mio Babbino Caro

The RiverTevere

through many days of rain,
thousands watched from bridges,
disaster flooded many
along the long river Tevere

now, at last, blue sky,
cold waters will recede,
for those unscathed
normality returns

At the Corner of 63rd and Life

what i am doing
with this blog of poetry
is the best i can

at the corner of 63rd and life,
my objectives are too easily clouded by
hyperbole and dense intense delusion,
my favorite being that i need one
hundred thousand blog hits a week,

why? so I can go on Oprah? when?
will they pick me up? do I have to wear makeup?
the next day will Oprah invite me to lunch?
will she still know me? can she cook?
will she send me a holiday card via email?
tell her i don’t open any attachments

this afternoon i got a cell phone text message saying
for only 1.2 euro (that’s how they wrote it) i could get
a chance to win a new Fiat,
what kind of chance they didn’t say,
but if i don’t spend 1.2 euro
it implies my slim chance bypasses all at high speed
and zips directly to Hell’s Inferno

great. if you want to give a new Fiat away
do it, park it outside and leave the keys in the mailbox
i’d ask for a driver, but M. can do that, she likes to drive,
that’s settled then, i’ll wait to hear the keys drop in the box

until then i have stuff to read and things to write,
i’ll walk to the store when i have to,
to help M. carry the groceries,
and continue to do the best i can,

i know we won’t be going in a new Fiat

Giacomo picked me up

coming out of Standa grocery store
walking in the sun toward the Tram Otto
I see a smiling face looking at me
It’s Mirella

there, at an outside coffee bar amid traffic on Vialle Trastevere,
we sat at a table and reunited with Mirella and Aldo
now four years retired from the outdoor market,
she’s had each leg operated on and is walking again,
I had painted her many times when they worked
in the Piazza Campo Dei Fiori

later Giacomo picked me up near the bar of the witch
at the corner of Lungo Tevere and Vittorio Emanualle
we went to Donetella’ restaurant for lunch,
she was in Copenhagen, but the staff was there
the lad from Romania called me by name,
the parmigiana di melanzane that looked like taquitos
and tasted like heaven
lucca looked older, walked with a crutch,
he had an accident on his motorino,
Sunday he goes to his sailboat in Barbados
to take tourists around for a month

heavy rain again this afternoon in Roma
after lunch Giacomo dropped me off
in front of Santo Spirito Hospital, one of the
oldest continuous running hospitals in the world,
I’ve spent some nights there before the renuvation,
when the church part was a large open ward for the men,
this afternoon I caught a bus from there

on the way home I stopped to inquire
about an old friend, a gentle man,
we used to see quite often dining at the Oassi,
he taught at catholic college, used to play piano duets
with Pope Ratzinger in private rooms at the Vatican,
last year he was doing better, his voice returned,
the lady at the coffee bar said
he became weak again this summer,
after forty years in Roma
Father Lawrence went home to London to die

the sky has darkened,
it’s only four p.m.,
the street lights are on already,
it's colder now,
how quickly days tumble by
as we reach December

laid felt ye same sanome

“laid felt ye same sanome”
i wrote these words,
for years they were on a piece of paper
on the side of my refrigerator
i don’t know what it means
the words sound like something to me
the sounds are the poetry
it’s a chant, a mantra

more words are for my hurt
when i put it out there where it won’t go
i gave to someone who couldn’t give back
saw it coming
knew it all along
fell again
hurt again
should have ducked

that’s enough, for now, for then
in a while i may do it again
that’s what we do
always the ones we can’t have that we go for
the ones that want us, we don’t want

it’s in the past now
yet I recall
this foolish way of youth
felt ye same?

the masterpiece of kin

the masterpiece of kin is cunning
in similarities quick to begin
at times they think the same
grip the same,
gripe the same
walk and talk, dress
and look the same

i remember a family of five brothers
all looked like their father
half again like their mother
a year parted each birth
a revolution of the sun
between each of their worth
enough to get another
one practically
same as the other

not in the name
but in the soul
lies cold truth told
deep somewhere in the whole
where a lonely star hovers
the person slips through
to be their own self
apart from the others

not in the name
but in the soul
lies the whole
deep somewhere

Arrotino

arro rhymes with borrow
arro teen, oh
arro tin o

call it out, sing it out
let it wail in the air
and hang there for all
so they can hear you coming

sing it everyday for thirty years and more
like your father and his,
while pushing your bicycle
with a grinding wheel mounted on top
up and down cobblestone streets of old Roma
then you’ll have the voice of the caller
the sharpener, the arrotino

let them bring their knives down to you
to sharpen on your wheel
call them
the call will richocet off stone walls
echo and carry the cry
into every doorway, every window
they will come
as they have for centuries
arrotino

our times

after food and shelter are satisfied
seek beauty in your life
keep order in your space
everything in it’s place

appreciate the out of doors
complete your chores,
stay within the lines
do your best, enjoy the times

after coffee sunday

after coffee at Isa’s in Trastevere we
had lunch at Giacomo’s and Virginia’s
wonderful mezzo rigatoni pasta in tomato sauce,
I cleaned up her pc while they all cooked

last night Virginia's brother won best
cinematographer at the European film awards,
his son won best Director for the same movie,
the film swept the top five awards

two months ago they won at Cannes
we saw this latest award on the TV news today,
that’s why when we went to Donatella’s Friday
she and Marco and Mateo were in Copenhagan

Every Viewer

sitting in front
of a plastic box
smiling, usefully as a carrot
God bless us Every Viewer

oh, humanity you sure as Hester
got suck-ed-up in a good one this time,
careful now, don’t use up your brain,
you may need it for something later