on and off again

at each bus stop
the middle door is for exit only
on-getting people have no sense
there are off-going people

although they have done this exchange
a thousand times or more,
it is all new, unveiled to them
as if they’ve never been at the door before

this somehow lead me to think in times like these
when things are tight
for a simple thing like a cup of coffee
some places raise prices

maybe it’s time to cut some slack
readjust and take it easy,
now we ought to step back,
these are new times

consider how we can
get back on track,
new times need new tactics,
for now the old times aren’t coming back

get ready for summer

get ready for summer
when wind blow
stirs crickets,
no one has to train them

like training the foolish
to do something foolish
isn't necessary,
no lessons to be learned

and summer all -
rushes toward us
tumbling, unfolding in leaves,
happens naturally,

the moon shines bright,
nearly white light,
behind racing clouds
over long fields, fences

lakes and lanes,
cities, rooftops
and trees in green
for miles

and kids and dirt
you need them
have to have them
and ice cream trucks

then nights bring
lonesome train whistles
fish jump
practically hanging in the air

thistles rattle
insects snicker
it’s the wind blow itself
that stirs crickets

no doubt about it.
mark that down
lest you forget,
now you know, how it go,

and it do go on
in dew
for you,
and for me, and forever

the string is out

my grandmother
was Polish and spoke English so-so
she used to have the radio on
or grandpa did, as she ironed

she told my mom that she felt bad
for the baseball player called “string”
because she always heard the announcer
say “the string is out”, “the string is out”

this is what announcers said
during the game when it was
a 3 ball, 2 strike full count on a batter,
one pitch remaining for him

my cousins son is in his fifties
his grandfather was my dad’s brother
i knew his grandfather and his great grandfather
also that little old woman who was his

great. great grandmother, oh my . . .
time passes like a soaring bird,
sailing overhead deep,
like a long fly ball heading over the wall

somewhere it’s the bottom of the ninth,
the big game nearing completion,
tap the bat against your shoes,
knock the mud off your cleats

tuck the bill of your hat down to cover the sun,
two out, bases loaded, the full count is on,
one pitch remaining,
the string is out

when it comes down the pipe
go for it,
knock that puppy
over the wall

i am x

i am an x-patriot
living in Roma
in need another letter for this term
not so hopeless, infinite, outcast

something positive,
uplifting, outgoing, optimistic
was thinking this thought
on the way to an appointment

when i realized i had gotten into
the slowest taxi in the free world,
new world, old world,
another planet, any planet

in agonizing minutes Pokey the Driver
had torpedoed my good attitude,
a direct hit into my inner workings
had whipped my mental machinery to jelly

i quivered, i sank, went down
nose first like a rocket pointed to hell.
cross me out, x me out, go ahead x-me good.
i was and am no more, move over, i'll drive


The driver was a nice old man. he just couldn’t push the gas pedal.
Even after I left the cab, usually they’re gone before I can turn my head, he sat there a while before he pulled out into traffic. I was wondering if I was going to have to call a cab for him.

woodbine twines

woodbine twines climb higher
where white fragrant flowers go
one after the other,
we shall follow in our time

franco worked for the flower venders,
a woman or two, maybe three of them
covered head to foot in coats
and scarves and inane chatter

would be partners with who knows,
always changing faces,
girasole toward the sun,
now fond franco hasn’t reappeared

he the simple helper schlepper
down on luck, getting by in fancy time
when he wasn’t drinking and falling down
eye trouble, though money never a factor

not when there is none
comes and goes as he wished, as others wished,
then went home, somewhere south,
i heard the name of the village last year

have forgotten the village but not Franco,
thought he’d return
but winter’s over
and he remains gone as the snow

city life is seasons,
that visit, then change,
while woodbine is curling
life does rearrange

the line

mindless repetition
is not really,
for it takes mind and attention
to repeat exactly

repetition then is practice,
to learn a skill
to do it unerringly,
completion of an action beyond fault

next, alteration
and experimentation
lead to discovery
and invention

artistic expression
is on the path
toward improvement
of an idea

be prepared

on a narrow city street
our large city bus stops
behind another,
two, three, four others

our bus driver
says nothing,
gets out, walks away,
doesn’t look back

we get out and get into the front bus
it goes away
with us aboard
we’ll see where it goes

then on another jammed narrow street
all cars are parallel parked
except the one that’s nose in first
and blocks our buses passage

bus honks, a man comes, waves apologies
and moves his little car
hey, this is Roma, we expect chaos,
receive it routinely, good naturedly, warmly

they must put kryptonite in the water
cause we’re all supermen for being here
and then it dulls us enough
to put up with this mess and love it

the bus moves on past new old stores
apartments, flowers on sills, kitties watching,
new kids playing in the streets, a chained yapping dog,
new old folks walking or talking in small groups

we get out to walk in Trastevere
buy pizza slices and ricotta cheese for later
we’re right below Giacomo’s apartment
i call, he invites us up for coffee

he and Virginia with two other couples
had just finished red pasta and green salad lunch,
desserts on the table, we chat over coffee,
meet new people, a good time for all

you never know where the next step leads
when you take to the streets in Roma.
so when you venture out keep a clear head, stay alert,
and like the boy scout motto - be prepared

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