in the back of the bus

a pair of rain wash angels,
bone cold hearts worn
skirting desperation
seated in somber silence

poised, pensive,
tightening spirits,
as we bus rush away
from the maddening center

the princess sisters observe nearby
two younger girls, heads together,
soft giggle working in a word puzzle book.
the older sadly perceive fate of the younger

while along this traffic-bogged way
there are no costly cell phone calls for these riders
full of thought with the occasional low murmur,
remain packed fish in a tin silent

we are like globes

we are like globes,
similar to the one we live on
with different regions, aspects

when i see you
perhaps my soviet union territory
is facing your north America

always like that
sometimes turned a bit
yet exposing familiar surfaces

we are similar on the edges
where we overlap,
though, if we were to part

then return after a revolution around the sun
and my Australia faced your South America
we wouldn’t recognize each other

we might not even see each other. so
as a point of contact, as reference, as renewal
show me your china, i’ll show you mine

Giacomo drove

day began with a walk across Ponte Sisto,
where today machinery is tearing up one end.
wore my dark clip-on sunglasses
couldn’t see at all in the sidewalk glare

rain was on then off in bright sun
if there was dog crap on the sidewalks
hope walked me around it
i knew it was there somewhere

felt comfortable with extreme impaired vision
sight is not only seeing, it is sense,
that’s how camel- back wanderers crossed deserts,
how they decided where to set their tents

my friends arrived quickly as i did,
first son, Alex, glad
to see me, and i him
then a car came - Giacomo his dad, tall, thin

aging son of a Grand Prix driver, mother set speed
records on motorcycle, being first moves his blood.
you have to be crazy to ride when Giacamo's in a hurry
i rode in the front passenger seat

we launched into a fresh rain challenge
Alex had the seat in back
Giacomo drove us to parts of Roma unknown
near the airport, near the river

far, and turning fast enough to make me shiver,
into the land of warehouses and such, we picked up insulation
enough to pack the car to the ceiling leaving no room for us,
then we got in anyway, and sped away

soaring through heavy traffic, now rain again,
a red light blinked while a dash alarm sound every few minutes
i asked unconcerned Giacomo what it was
he said it signaled something, and kept going

and on we went, a couple of near misses
i heard groans or whimpers in the back seat from Alex,
Giacomo rolled down the window a few times
giving instructions and suggestions to other drivers

he kept driving hard
in the rain
in heavy traffic
in the name of glory

we must have made it
cause i wrote this,
ready to go again – anytime.
with my friend Giacomo

ship of dream

the large dark ship of dream
asleep on a flat blue bay,
a cardboard moon above,
nearby sometime in the future

violet tinted creatures reading this
say the continuum has altered
i can’t speak your language, i interject
surprised - they evaporate gracefully into their own time

i use mine to determine what has happened
while a crowd of clowns gather on the dock,
casting off lines on our large dark ship of dreams
“say there”, Bogart says to me under his hat, “easy”

at a glance he appears congenial, overdressed,concerned
leaning on a rail and flicking cigarette ash over the side,
“go easy, and pay no never mind”, i nod absently
all is subdued, dark silent, i’d like a sandwich

the yellow paper moon overhead hasn’t moved
the clowns are gone, Bogart’s smiling, the ship is sailing
on a dark flat sea, just for you,
just for me

i don't have

i don’t have ideas for poems
i have things i see, things i do, have done,
want to do, others to do, climb on,
best wishes to all

the music of words puts poetry together like a wave.
get on aboard, ride it out, one has your name on it,
a shooting star in the heavens,
discover the universe

physics of reality

physicists says properties in
the real world
are observer determined

so if a kid wipes a popsicle on the side
of your face, you’ll see orange dripping.
then you can simply turn a mental page

or chase him down,
sit on him ‘til he squeals
and quits laughing

or when you wake in the morning
you can just keep your eyes closed,
tuck in and think about things cozy

so your reality can wait chilling
and nothing will happen of consequence
until you decide to get up and observe something

2012

cleaning up scraps of paper
a lot of it receipts, tickets etc.
never ending piles of trash
trees cut, ground and milled

pressed into paper, inked, stamped
and cut with dotted lines
what is it for?
Berlusconi the wealthy Italian premier

has companies that make money printing tickets.
after we pay our money
why do we need a ticket?
there is one door in, one door out

when i was a kid a hundred was a lot,
it was the big number,
the maximum in everyday big talk,
bet you a hundred

million was something we heard about
but was beyond practical
used occasionally in conjecture
now population is counted in billions

i was ten when i read about the Maya,
their calendar ending in 2012
now, holy smoke, there's talk about it
it's closing in, as the world staggers

scientist talk about sun trouble,
near misses from soaring objects,
the out looks on several fronts are not encouraging
weather is changing, spare a quarter?

give me another ticket stub, i’ll put it
in a jar at home, or admire it for a millisecond,
tape it on the refrigerator, or rash it right away,
let city workers carry it away to Neverland

scraps of paper, pennies in a jar - the new economics,
floating plastic and submerged mush in rivers and oceans
rapid chopping trees like a cook does vegetables
oh yeah then, something i can deal with - what’s for dinner?

the ultimate capolinea

we can get on any bus there
she said as she pointed.
it was a capolinea, a stopping point,
halfway, for several bus lines

but she had called it more than that,
this was the great one.
she said from this capolinea
it was possible to get on any bus

sure i am reasonable,
but not a doubter.
if she said it, than from here
i imagine we could get on any bus

how about we take a bus
that goes by the great pyramid, turns left
then goes along the beach in
Zijuatanejo, Mexico in . . . say 1935

wait - i considered circling the moon,
then decided instead we’d take one
that sails the Caribbean - around 1500,
or there abouts

if you ever decide to ride this one
do wear light clothing,
bring sun protection, and be very sure
to pack a sword

way out to lunch

I have to report, because someone will comment about M. getting sick last week and my timing was off, so I’ll explain: this poem was getting warmed like buns in the oven since last week. I generally write them as they occur. Occasionally this is a diary of sort, but this time other things crept in and this piece had to wait.

So the story is that M. had the fever and is now ok. You can bank on it. So now read about it.


way out to lunch

out to good food lunch,
maybe the air was bad, of vegetable we had
a colorful mood bunch,
she liked it, that’s my hunch

though she didn’t say,
just went home then, the bus ride way, easy,
later that evening
she began feeling queasy

when up came a flash fever
she decided to chuck it,
couldn’t just leave her,
so i manned the bucket

rode the bus

rode the bus,
tourist window on the world,
fewer buses now in Roma
and they’re driving faster to make up for it

i don’t think we are supposed to notice the
cost saving measure, but i was seat sliding.
as we spun around a corner i reminded myself
the pleasure of dying in an accident

there is no prolonged advance worry before hand
like applying jelly to toast,
the knife hangs suspended,
then swipe, that’s it.

turned 65 so i paid half, 16, for a month bus ticket
now i ride twice as much to make up
for all the other years i paid double,
i think i can do it, i think i can, i think i can

Roma is changing face from winter to spring.
i pull out pen and paper to make note of
the two conditions of retirement:
nothing to do, too much to do

incident report from Rocco’s pizza,
dear sweet happy Claudia from Romania
got her vial tapped by the gangly mushroom man
long may they run, and happy together

got out in front of the bookstore at Largo Argentina
a grey worn tenor sax man in his late seventies,
with jazz music in the forties, has some stuff,
playing for hours, solo, for infrequent coins

as i drop him some, he slowly looks me steady in the eye.
insurance for my future, could be me some day
my wife pointed out that i don’t play sax
pshaw . i told her i could learn

backing up to see a phone number over a door
i fell back into a large flower pot, pot and i both ok.
i’m wearing my mail man shoes today,
got them resoled for 15 euro, met a new friend.

at the center of Piazza Cavour on the head of the statue
of Count Camillo Cavour who forged the kingdom of Italy,
two birds stand side by side appropriately
at pigeon attention

half hour later back on the bus
caught myself humming
the sax man’s tune -
Ecstasy

b. dylan

word got out, came around,
about this young guy
making music in the Village
knew he changed his name from Zimmerman

saw his wild strange mess photo,
and his songs came in on radio,
tried to wake us up, talked for us,
kept coming, slapping us awake

he wasn’t Peter, Paul or Mary
his voice and diction were unruly disorder,
played a funky guitar, so that
his harmonica was a dissonant plus

but his words, oh, the words were tight
they were packed weights, color and light,
riding melodies that rang hearts and minds,
even the timing for his coming was right

we wanted and needed him
there was a space in culture just then,
an opening wide enough for him to joggle through
tip his cap and be Bob Dylan for us all

there was math involved

when i was a kid i put a firecracker
into a lunch box
lit it and closed the lid
and threw it into my closet

i peaked to see the lid blowing off
then opened windows to get the grey smoke out,
when mom came home i told her so she’d quit worrying
cause she smelled the smoke

if i built that real moon rocket a few years later,
the explosion would have blown it to smithereens,
they had the thing go up for real, it did
and kept going up and up and out and far

now, before it happened the word was out
real good, because everyone knew,
even the night was perfect that July,
and the astronauts took a camera along

good planning to have a camera for everyone
everywhere in the world to watch it live,
the picture wasn’t perfect
that hardly mattered, there it was,

we saw Neil Armstrong come down that ladder
we knew his name right away, and that he was from Ohio
and we heard his words when
he stepped his boot in black and white into moon dust

we sat on the floor eating popcorn, as close
as we could get to Walter Cronkite, the TV and the moon
when he said one small step for man,
one giant leap for mankind

poetry began at the Ritz Theater

a scratched nineteen thirties movie
black and white, new way back once upon a time,
quality withered, it used to be so sharp
but who knows where that film was stored for years

hear clicking, the projector runs the sprockets
house lights dim, Mr. Mattee has a flashlight,
the smell of popcorn drifts and fills the air,
previews, the cartoon then the grand theme starts

filmed at dusk, there are fires
with nine hundred extras changing costumes
to be the villagers, the Vandals and than an invading army
fought inside, over and along ancient castle walls

of course there were towers, a moat and stirring music
and that’s the true story how i began writing poetry
when i was a kid, before that i thought about it
but wasn’t serious

how we pass our lives

how we pass our lives,
more than eat, sleep, work and play
it’s commitment to the running quest, the arts,
seeking to reach the best in every way

and the people we know, the wonderful people,
what they say, what they choose,
these things we relate to, a veritable love
day to day, win or lose

reflections on those i’ve known assist me
to evaluate position here in life, my own,
we must maintain control, be diligent, yet go easily,
while throttle open, wheeling free

of friends

of friends,
and our times
precious, special

when we meet and talk
inch our way
discovering who we are

taking food and drink together
sharing laughter
building the good hours

but people do move away
and it comes so sudden
when they are gone

best wishes, to all friends near and far,
and thank god we have pleasant memories,
warm like red hearth fire coals that linger on

i was born on

i was born on Steinbeck’s birthday
and have always liked the smell of ocean
also born the same day as Elizabeth Taylor
but haven’t married eight times . . . yet

i also share my day with Emperor Constantine
his year of birth is debatable,
you'd think they'd have kept better records
on leaders of the civilized world

just guessing now, but i
could have been born on Moses birthday
but his calendar didn’t have a February
anyway i’m of Polish descent not Egyptian

and if i were to leave my homeland, for sure
i'd never take thousands of people with me
and irritate the Pharaoh so terribly
that he'd chase me with his army



oh, and Longfellow's birthday too,
can't forget about him
else thing have to do
is write dis all again

Dumpling Realizer

without a glitch she passed
through the force field poles
that undoubtedly scan shoppers for weapons
or maybe just make pictures for the boys in the back room

as into market fighting for position, she goes
we’re having soup she said, i saw zucchini laid in a line,
a clerk with a braid came to her aid, once or twice,
she bought magic stuff to make dumplings

amid a symphony of vegetables, meat and a lot of cheese
she had taken her wheeled cart along
the one that is Scotch red and blue plaid,
i have no idea why they decided to spell plaid that way

we paid for all, including her Dumpling Realizer
what most earthlings call baking powder,
i thought i’d mention that,
as it is the name of this poem

braid, maid, raid, laid,
paid, aid, and plaid
there i said it,
and i’m glad

too much to ask

this may be
too much to ask,
it’s not really necessary,
we could leave it for last

but do i really need it?
it could be quite a task,
oh well, don’t bother,
forget i asked

out of time

difficult for me
to imagine the chapter,
walking my familiar street
in some other time, before or after

sooner or later, no matter
with no key in my pocket to unlock it
or permission to enter
because my door belongs to another

and the stuff inside there
is someone else’s now
or hasn’t happened yet
in another time, wow

to market

Isfahan's Grand Bazaar,
dates from the 10th century
is largely covered
and ten kilometers long

The Tehran's Grand Bazaar
is also ten kilometers long.
The Grand Bazaar of Istanbul
built in the 15th century,

is still one of the largest covered
markets in the world,
has more than 58 streets
and 4,000 shops

yet, i can moan congestion
and impatience when in line
at the tiny local market
with three people in line ahead of me