so the fish

so the fish takes a summer job at the plant
the foreman asks who could drive a fork lift
the fish says he could because the foreman
didn’t ask who can, but who could

the fish thinks he could
so he steps forward, gets in the fork lift
and uses his mouth to turn the key
he has no feet to reach the pedals

drives out and away, jumps into the nearby river
swims down stream and never looks back
because he has no neck and can’t turn his head
to look behind even if he wanted to

he told this story to his children
and eons later ancestors evolved
grew fingers and hands and feet
and wrote this story down

bookmarks

don’t have to remember anything
can bookmark by the number
i have a few new bookmarks
and plenty already there

to organize alphabetically
sort them out, files, folders, labels
many i have never seen before
don’t know how they got there

seemed a good idea when i clicked them
then never went back except now
to clean up my bookmarks
by eliminating at least a hundred never used

if i miss them when they’re gone
can always add more
i’ll make a note to do it
if i don’t get to it today

birds

birds on a wire
won’t fly higher
because they start from a better position

like people, it’s how well they can do
not what advantage they have
that determines how high they go

march bites

march bites the unwary
mouth open snapping
on low turning, moving sky cotton wisps
where winging fast birds
rise from napping
appear shot from a sling
dip low then soar far

keep jacket on, cap in hand
ready to zip up and button down
for after an hour’s pleasant sun
darker grey colors of change hover
ready to toss the covers from secret hiding
and leap, riding gusts on quick padded feet
so the next patter you hear
may be cold, hard rain drops splatter near

rushing waters

from a hotel room by the quick river
we see and hear white ripples
rush dancing over smalls falls
in non-stop fluid symphony
all day, all the night it goes on, and on
like eternal traffic sound
without pause or change
the same liquid white noise
over and over and over
packed splashing full in moving file
never with thought or pause,
while traffic ebbs and flows
and people are behind it
rushing fast mountain river water,
is a senseless spiral bound book
with no words on the pages
it keeps turning, turning
flipping ever forward
with no beginning or end
for ages, liquid ages

born a fish

it’s new and i like it
born a fish
not so bad, i don’t care
food floats by all the time
don’t have to wash or decide what to wear

home life is odd
never sleep in the same bed
and today i got rushed over a falls
i know why they call ‘em that
but i didn’t get hurt

keep swimming
they say i have to watch out for fishermen
whatever that means and such
we swim in schools
but i haven’t learned much

scarpe diem

the Iranian shoe throwing Journalist
was sentenced to three years in prison,
give him, me, and the world a break
within reasonable perspective
it was an insult
not a weapon of mass destruction

had he hit Bush in the face
prosecutors would have had something to talk about
as it was, only insult was done
and that won’t be retracted by prison time
harsh injustice would be promoted
in what we envision as the civilized world

pigeon feeding

we stopped at the small corner park
never got comfortable
a woman had a twenty pound bag of feed
throwing it out
a hand full at a time
to more pigeons
than I have seen
gathered anywhere at one time
in my life

all grass was destroyed in that half of the park
when we tired and left
the woman showed no sign of slowing
although her intentions were well based
this feeding is not good
for people
or for pigeons,
look it up

two or three pigeons
are something to see
two or three hundred
is something to avoid




Please don't feed the pigeons!

* It affects their health
* It attracts vermin and is a risk to human health
* It damages buildings
* It makes pigeons dependent on people
* It deprives other birds of food

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