if in a slip stream through time

if in a slip stream through time
to pop up more than a decade ago, behind myself
just walking out the door. dressed for the day,
then on the road where traffic flows the same

a stop for a coffee in an old bar
that hasn’t gone modern, then to enter
the appointed place at the appointed time
with a last look toward the sun as i walk in the door

only half wondering at the time
if ever will i think about this day again
bring it back, this pleasant air, happy i am,
a least knowing, what a gift it is to be here

sad poems

some poems are unhappy
sadness need not be sought
or brought out as the printed words

let’s leave sad sleep in peace, shall we.
we’ll do other things. women can watch the men
and man can dream of girls

we will live quietly, wait and have fun
enjoy the silence and the sun
sadness will seek us out soon enough

stone

stone street narrow ways
give strength to the noise
echoes rolling
in ricochet

images of friends
acquaintance memories
evaporating, barely holding on
not enough to make an image

open the windows
nearly hear the dampness
on grey stone walls
absorbing life, a drop at a time

yet the blade sharpener still comes by
calling out for all above to hear
as he pushes down the street
here for your service i am "arrotino"

time like olden days

time like olden days
lives on little lanes
off main crowded ways
when it's sunny or it rains

a lone sturdy woman
shorter then we
and rounder too
in lengthy dark country dress

carries a covered box in her hands
and a large open cardboard box
piled high with clothing
balanced atop her head

steady duck walking
oblivious to us she ambles by
showing her skill and no concern
in a manner that tireless practice has endowed

until you get it right

all the dead and wreckage
poor with nothing more
than hope
in the news
far away
the destruction of Haiti

next door Donny, body like a penguin
legs like a rooster
in the can for making cash by
selling pot to his cousins
come on by, cousin

one year throwing firecrackers over
our very old wooden house and into the tree
i had to go out to speak with the drunken clan

another time party drinking three a.m.
music louder than passing trains
where are the cops tonight?
i went over to speak with them again

always a party
always Donny in the thick of it
cars on the lawn
seventeen is the record
always drinking, always noise
they hear on the scanner the cops are coming

then they are silent, trying to act
as if they were napping on the lawn
all fifteen of them
some on their feet
others in chairs, or on tops of cars
all with beers in hand
they promise to be quiet

another eve we wake to shouts
on the street at two a.m.
bending forward, hands on knees
taunting his opponent to take his best shot
then his mother runs out there trying to stop them

everyone yelling, it’s chaos, until they shout it out
then it’s calm, then he hugs the guy and all wave goodbye
we hear him call, “i love you, man”

pneumonia at home, goes to bed
geeze, Donny, you were only sick
couldn’t you do anything right?
you were only thirty-five
when we get back in ohio
i’ll have to go over
and speak with them

mr. moon mixes his days

coming out of trestevere
see Giancarlolino Benedetti Corcos
used his full name cause he’s up an coming
told us to come to his art show by Porta Portese
but it was last night and i forgot

then at Ponte Sisto ran into Mark Kostobi
the artist with promotion in his veins
has a tv show now where the audience names his paintings
has a studio where artists paint his pictures

the Pope motorcade was coming by in a few minutes
Mark did a sculpture for him, it’s all on his website
asked Mark if the Pope was going to
slow down and wave

friend bill the cook met the pope three times
his picture with bill is on bill’s aunt’s mantle
bill has no money, no papers, no web site or cell phone or TV show
and 40 years cooking for various embassy events
is so inconspicious that people see the photo
and don't even notice that guy with the pope

walked by our street parked car
hasn't been damaged yet
three coins were on the drivers seat
mr. moon moved the car last week
M. provided disparaging words
but i’m working on my pockets, i said

stopped at shoe man
sent us two doors down to shoe lady
bought an insert, cause two days ago
i bought two shoes, two sizes too large

can’t take them back they say
she’s a mean shoe lady
won’t exchange them
everyone says

maybe next full moon i’ll take the other pair
walk back across Ponte Sisto,
ask and hear it myself from
the horse's ass, i mean mouth

fictitious facetiousness

the clocks are wound just right
making time with perfect pendulation
yet i had to take them back
to clean loose ends, and i'll be damned, they did

remembering a night
that didn’t go my way
my lips were too light
the look on her face

it didn’t seem to matter that much
at the time
kept true to some oddness
holding near my love

that saw light in me
and who knows what else
i have no idea
i wasn't aware

my path must be worn
like ages old stone
getting us home
were we belong

so why would i trip
when i know these stones so well
in the cold walk through hell
be darns ya, be darns ya

b.

make the frog sound like a loose banjo string
let him sing all night for all of us
it’s heaven calling
don’t you hear it

be darn ya
there are only distractions on the way
you’ve got to stay wound
to keep ticking

come on, lovergirl
we have to get going
they find us here and that's bad
this beach is closed on moonless nights



addendum:

when they were putting English together
who ever thought it was a good idea to
spell wound – as in wound the clock
and wound - as in injury
the same way

these poems

these poems are
a sturdy little cabin in the woods
just a bit more than you imagined
where wind outside hums gentle hush
a rushing in and through the trees

now pause, take rest
enjoy evening's quiet time
before bears and birds
and others prowl about

do, sit now by the open stove
a light warm shawl around your shoulders
and an inviting wooden rocker
with a colorful clean soft cushion

a fresh sturdy length of log is added on the leaping fire
sparkling red and orange glowing coals
dancing reflections, crackles in the quiet
all smoke goes up the chimney
perfect in every way

a cabin rustic and reminiscent of times past,
call them the good old days.
a warm drink?
coffee, tea or beer, also liquor if you prefer

good crackers and cheese
the like of which you have never had,
a taste that will surprise you
delight you, just right

we can sometime be a ship
at sea in good weather
sunshine
sure the wind is always at your back,
a pleasant rolling, dolphin, soaring gulls

the right air breeze
ripe sea splashes
pleasure for your taking
enjoy the space
at your pace, my friend

we may talk a bit and laugh
eat a good bite
chocolates or a sandwich
an excellent soup of modest design

while you tell a story, or I will
and moonlight shines
the morning sun will rise
pastel sky and clouds fill the skies

soft music on a guitar,
maybe a piano in the next room
all things, all ways,
just right
in this cabin in the woods

terror

terror has no warning
while good or bad
life itself
is a lucky streak

expanding like the universe
all is chance
do the dance
nothing lasts forever

the end of an era

thinking about my mom when i woke today
her memory lives
in many ways

M. and i got on a 60 bus, out
one of the old gates of Roma
beyond Porta Pia,
on Via Nomentana

M. had a plan
so we went
to a spot, once in the country,
now in the city,
a quick ride away

to a church built in 400
for the daughter of Emperor Constantine
the sarcophagus is empty now
the body was taken to the Vatican
she had connections you see

in an adjacent church
as we enter a service ends
they carry out a coffin
another story ending

M. whisper asked about Claudio
a woodworker who married a Polish lady
we’d seen him a week ago
said they were moving to Poland
we'll not see him again

bused back near the termini
for pizza at Rocco’s
worker Caudia was there that morning
is pregnant, felt sick and left

no, she won’t be returning
that is the Italian way
out the door, we don’t know why
and gone forever,
that’s for sure

gone for always, like my mom,
like the one they carried out of the church,
like the daughter of Constantine,
like the body in the catacombs,
like Antonio to Polonia

first it's today
and what was yesterday,
is swept up,
given to the ages
the end of an era

so long, Claudia
here’s wishing you well
though we didn’t see you go,
or say good bye,
we’ll remember you
in good spirits
as you were

in good spirits

bus driver for the dead

less than two decades ago
buses in Roma filled with chatter
a plethora of voices
and every two speaking with each other
at the same time

like televised news segments
showing typical Italian disorderly debates across a table,
commonly there is no pause for the counter view
both speakers vehemently argue their point at the same time
each trying to talk louder than the other
this is both unbelievable and it is true

in those good long ago days past
yapping voices on a bus
like pups in a kennel
rattled the bus windows
in jocular and obtrusive good spirit

now with cell phone, there are times of the year
when everyone is on the phone talking
no one is listening,
i long suspected there is no one on the other end
in some of these long winded conversations

today, cold and wet miserable,
post holiday winter sales over,
the faltering economy generally down,
no one speaks – absolutely no one -
silence pervades

the bus driver is a driver of dead spirits
wait – some voice in the rear of the bus
ah, teens – well, they’re out of step,
and no one listens to them anyway

over on the dark side

over on the dark side of town
whizzed by the big charcoal gray stone church
santa maria maggiorre, or saint mary major
one of four Papal basilicas in Roma

it’s just over from the train station,
we splashed in the fountain there
one fun night years ago,
only now it is morning

passed the church on the bus
to Esquilino the market – the big one
jammed packed alive crawling like
mice over rice on the run, alive i say, alive

had a coffee, then half of cold thin pizza
to carry home, along with our shoulder bags
laden with three pounds of clementinas,
two pounds of polenta, peas and pistaccios, and pane
(which is bread – but pane starts with a P
and this is like happening poetry)

presto we were out of there
busing home with our booty
on two expired tickets
looking for ticket checkers all the way

we made it – wait
some one is lying in the street below our window
it’s Leonardo again – the guy
who was on fire last week

lying now in front of Mario's store
Mario was there, his nose broken by his
stick swinging nephew, little Manuale
also last week

went out and helped keep Leonardo comfortable
shortly an ambulance came and took him away again
i think his burnt leg gave out,
i know he did

Mario is doing okay
he has a good attitude
mind if we take a break now
enough action for one day

repetition

writing something
waxing the table, learning a skill
like riding a bike

follow the masters
take instruction, sharpen and hewn
then you do it, over, again and again

ten thousand times over
with care and attention
find joy in repetition as means to an end

learn well, this is your life
do the job ,
do it right

poor violin

in the piazza again, plays without giving
without tempo, lean, shabbily dressed
sans feeling, songs run together
effort expended is to show up

three minutes pass, the repetition pauses,
passes into the crowd, no one looks up
extending a paper cup, seeking coins
he just got there, most ignore him, now he is leaving

moves on in his round, they don’t see him go
to the next outdoor café, few notice,
repeat motions of the last hour, the last day
there is no end, melody fragments the same

months pass into seasons, some give coins for no reason
as years slip by, he has a poor violin, not quite in tune
faces at the tables revolve, he need not notice,
does his rounds again, plays the violin heartless

un altro giorno in paradiso

looked out the window, checked the weather
then off to the market by the Vatican train station
returned home once for umbrellas,
weather from the window can be deceiving

then out again to that outdoor market under partial awnings
to get the names of ingredients in a vegetable mixture
a wonderful assortment of greens we bought yesterday
and now want to duplicate ourselves
careful now, we don’t want to duplicate ourselves
just that mixture of greens, stay with me

now home where M. is reading of old Roma
Bernini getting an obelisk in 1636
it nearly went to a collector in England
ended instead at Piazza Navona

M. reads aloud while i wonder
what note i didn’t jot down this morning,
rolled over in bed instead of getting up,
another idea lost to the ages

now hail is falling this afternoon
i didn’t have to say falling on the outside
cause i know now you’re reading carefully
aren’t we about finished?
can i take a nap?

wait, commotion down below
a fight broke outside
must be thirty-five people out there
it’s franco’s family, all of them
and friends and onlookers,
the usually sedate wife too, screaming

Manuale beat his uncle with a stick
three cop cars pulled in and broke it up
little Manuale split before they got there
he's the little prick who set off a half stick of dynamite
on new years eve in campo dei fiori
another day in paradiso

beam me

years ago there was a TV commercial
that said – bite me brother,
i’m a chunky

that was a candy bar commercial
that got laughed off the air
and went the way of
free willy

now,
back to now again
i saw three separate ladies

naturally they were separate
there were three of them
it wasn’t a tricycide
or a threeoid

one, two and the other one
not together
just shopping where I could see

absoluteway, there were three
women fortyish
they each wore blue jeans
that is the thing, the jeans

now,
twenty brief years ago
not now twenty ,
then twenty

well, they weren’t brief years either
just seemed that way
say zip

way back then,
there were no supermarkets in Roma
just open markets and small stores

that brief time ago the women
would have worn dresses
and their aunts,
and their sisters,
and Uncle Henry - uncle Henry? what the hell
get him out of . . . oh, he was just trying it on
and the next door neighbors
and their cousins
and their mothers
the lot of them

but now
it’s all blue jeans, TV and cell phones
a new world, baby
paper or plastic?

so beam me
somewhere, please
it’s your pick

i’m set
my jeans are packed
i’m ready to go
ciao ciao, john denver
see ya'roun, clownie

2010

i read on Andy’s blog
he is going from two thousand and whatever
to twenty ten, stream lining,
coming of age, me too then

nineteen something
was an old man on a crutch
twenty ten is a compact
with lubricated hinges

i’m stepping lighter already
head up, walking tall
come on down the line, new year
i’m unpacked and ready for it all

no technician has to fix it
Mr. Modern Guy has got it all(that's me)
all I need's a Chinese restaurant calendar
on the refrigerator or the bathroom wall

hoppng along

hopping along
this little bird
quickly sorting, checking
for what’s edible, i suppose

doesn’t turns it’s head
to look at me, keeps working
of no concern, although near
i’m not worth a glance

in this world, on this edge
who sees reality
and how much is apparent
to the bird or to me?

cold, wet january humanity

bused to Piazza Barberini
to our car insurance office
to see what we pay this year
where nothing is easy

took forty minutes
this afternoon a friend
will try online
to find a lower cost

stopped for lunch at Pasquali’s
sat at the common table
with the headcount
chatted with the regulars

the driver from the Maltese embassy,
another regular is curtain maker
for Rupert Murdock,
someone said i was a retired actor

so i mentioned working with Francis Coppola
Italians like to hear of Italians in Hollywood
and old folk drop names to keep face
at the common table

numerous they are
on varying paths and stages
through this maze
of humanity

Rupert Murdock’s curtain maker
i liked that, worth repeating,
first to my friend Bill who for forty years
has cooked for various embassy events

two day review

I.

sun bright
cold light
quiet Sunday
gentle anticipation in the air
saturates the walking gentry
tasting environs

II.

Monday contending
cool light winter rain
a light charcoal gray street sheen
umbrellas out for an airing
no hurry day people
all walking with care
cobblestones are slippery