the all new plan

whatever it is,my wife finds anything out of line,
anything at all, she’ll be pissed
doesn’t matter what it is.
hope there’s nothing i’ve missed.

i’ve got to anticipate, that means
clean up after myself, not make a mess
and keep her kissed . . . well, at least amused.
no one gets a free ride round here,

not even the frogs. not these days,
and make them damn robins pay
for all the worms they’re taking;
those dirty dirt peckers.

and i’m turning myself a new leaf, sure enough,
starting first thing tomorrow if i can,
well, tomorrow afternoon at the latest,
you can bank on it, cause that’s the plan.

so you may not recognize me,
cause i’ll be the one all the time head down an working, an I’m not
jerking you around, that’s for certain, well, that is the plan.
i’m the new man til they pull the final curtain, practically.
wa ya'think?

pilgrims cry

was a file
kept with my others.
title looked intriguing,
opened it,

nothing inside,
only a title.
i thought it would grow
from that small beginning

it didn’t; so what does that tell me?
writing beginnings can sit for a long time
unlike buds in spring or leaves in the fall that let go.
i made a sandwich to stall and consider.

had a model of the mayflower when i was a kid,
from the bar in a restaurant my folks took me to.
don’t remember ever playing with that ship
but i had it for a while, or at least i think i did.

now, pilgrims,
you're not usually thought about in May,
you are a story, seems from forever so long ago,
and should be remembered more, 's what i say.

you were before trains, TV, traffic,and airplanes,
when our country was land full of trees,
a lot of rolling earth, Indians and lightening bugs,
and many down sloping clean, fresh running streams.

good night kisses and motherly hugs,
that’s how it was done. now don’t you cry, pilgrims,
you did yours starting out and getting us here. thanks
from the generations that followed in the Mayflower's wake.

there’s still trouble with religion, war, and government,
the same old woes do go on; and like others in their time,
you know, we too did both our job and made a bit of mess.
patching, between accomplishments, an living with the stress.

guy problems

icebergs are melting,
great globs of trash are floating in the oceans,
the universe is expanding or shrinking ;
scientists have conflicting notions.

is it hotter
or colder,
what’s going on;
and what about the economy?

more than i can handle sometimes.
though i can squeak by knowing two things:
is what i have on okay?
and, what’s for dinner?

i thought chili peppers were hot

i thought chili peppers were hot,
that was the story, just hot.
then i ate a few,
okay, maybe more than a thousand.

not all at once, you know,
only if you add them up. a lot of them
in my lifetime, you see;
and what i got was an understanding

and an appreciation
for peppers in general.
sounds like a civil war commander
General Pepper,

and i did work for an old Pepper too.
Bill, he was from Kentucky.
Waddy, Kentucky to be exact.
How would i possibly remember that;

except that he wrote a song and
wanted me to help make it a hit, no kidding.
he called it - Move your Body to the Waddy.
and i thought i was making this up.

well, maybe with the Internet
and who know what all,
Bills words will live long, on into dark nights,
down rolling hills and by bushes where animals call;

but i swear it is true as clear water
gushing out of a mountain stream;
tasteless yet refreshing,
but no way a hit, you know what i mean?

all this takes us back to peppers
or at least me, where i began, it does.
i’ll sprinkle red hot ones on my food
cause it gives my mouth that happy buzz.

they were eating pepper five thousand years ago
in the Americas, that’s a fact;
and they stayed cause they are good,
but i don’t have to tell you that.

come on Bill, let’s make a song of it,
for the mountains and the trees and the birds
and the new people who came over and started
this up, along with and especially for, the Indians.

on Pasquali's family business

daughter.
good cooking daughter
satisfied to be there,
smiles when she sees us,
serves us well and plenty.

son.
son seems content in his labor
finding his own self,
following his father’s way;
stays on task throughout the day.

husband.
Pasquali is the quintessential good guy,
out there, friendly and happy,
he’ll stop and talk;
sits down with us if it’s slow.

wife.
don’t rush to pay if you see her,
now here’s the real score,
when old wifey takes the cash
it always costs a little more.

as a measure of time

as a measure of time,
tables - use old wood to build them,
or poems that i scratch out;
the tables aren’t much.

just made a small one
to hold my keyboard nicely,
the computer keyboard,
not the piano.

the piano sits well enough already
on the floor in the other room
where it ought to be,
like you, like me,

in place where we ought to be.
can i measure time building tables,
make a clock of it? there are pictures
to paint, engravings to do, and writing, eh.

all comes from within like breathing country air
and i let it out as it happens.
need i direct it more, control
and make a neat scene

or continue to write poems at random,
then build something,
paint something,
read or write when it happens?

at least, at most,
i am happy about it,
like life in the city
and many people to talk with;

what they do is their affair.
i keep head down with what i do,
although she has mentioned that
we don’t need another table.

rising early in the morning
in stillness, alone,
far trains passing
clocks ticking, tripping silence.

folly of spring

I
here i am, there are no geese.
must i go looking
in the usual places
where they congregate,

i don’t think so;
they can wait
and better they do,
a lesson for them all.

they know only their own reflection in the lake.
if they can recall other than their own image,
let them vent their wings and
see if they can find me.

a walk on the pier will show me many fish,
occasional mouth open bobbers and long swelling floaters,
but i don’t want to encounter any geese;
not that way, not today, not yet anyway.


II
wretched clean up
after a winter of winds blowing sticks,
knocking things about and new spring growing,
making a mess that we will reassemble into order;

it has to be done,
our part of the bargain
for being people living in this community.
have you noticed, the lucky nonliving don’t do shit.

they lie still in the recently frozen soil
watch the stars, wait for visitors,
or walkabout, return to favorite haunts in cover of darkness
or in thin air, thinking thoughts they didn’t know they could in life.

so i gave a kid relative of a neighbor
five bucks to cut our long front lawn.
when he finished tipped him a dollar for immediate service.
his two minutes would take forty-five from my life.

the kid is a tall, well built,long hair seventeen.
at that age i could have sliced weeds and then run the gauntlet,
now a wobbly sixty-five, can use the help
and kids always need money. good for both of us.

earlier i asked the school teacher next door how much
should i offer the lad to mow, he said five or ten.
this neighbor cuts it for us for free when we’re away.
teaches fifth grade math but not economics.


III
Frank the bluegill is gone from our pond
should i cast along the bottom with a net
dragging for skeletal remnants, traces
or did an invader, man or egret, go fishing.

no frogs yet, not this first of May.
they’ll come home in due time,
when it’s warm, humid, still and bugs are about.
scratch that last; there is one out there barking now.


IV
old friend LeeH. wrote to tell me of poet Wallace Stevens;
said my stuff was reminiscent. thought he joked
until i kept reading; it's a stretch, but now with a thousand
poems down i learn something new. that’s how life goes,

especially when you tire
of your own reflection in the water
and then pick your head up and look around.
there are nearly seven billion of us in this pond.

reading sign

i need go over again,
searching carefully each clue
as to where is up
for me, for you, it keeps changing

there’s been faint trace
like a bird puff gone to wind,
aloft - the shifting of the old tree.
ground level - wind licking long strokes in lawns

stuff is old, i see it around me
don’t let me kid myself
the wind is cold by night
as day old dinner left lying on the shelf

rampant speculation leads to inaccuracies
following closely pit padding heels of worry
abandoning hurry, do softly tread,
leave no space, show nor dread.

as we race handle our duties,
scurrying about have no doubt,
in the end, as my mother said,
kid, everything always works out

the egret has landed

more a to a less play the drums tap tap
in my head riding, some.
last time i opened the window
i didn’t know it was the last time

if people dressed better
would they treat us better?
on the other hand
they treat us like cattle, so dress for it

saw a disheveled motorcycle man attired for a sleepover
had on a t-shirt with a decal picture of a motorcycle on it
give him a country name
call him Harley Woodpecker

hug the cushion
to your chest
in the event of evacuation
i’d call that an event all right

don’t mind
much of anything
words people say
or what aggravates

out the window
looked like two fat puffy bunnies
parked on the tarmac
call them big planes in their team colors

lock tray tables down in their
full upright position, why is that?
will it rattle, fall and break on takeoff?
hug the seat cushion to your chest

in the event of an evacuation
or if in need of a cuddle, not while plane is in motion,
or they’ll want to know why you’re taking their plane apart
don’t forget, do not forget this is a non smoking flight, don’t forget

woke up at eleven pm last night your time
been flying, well, riding mostly
go ahead tell me it’s a non smoking flight
nearly forgot, thought i'd quit or something

hurry driver
take me home so i can find the Internet is down
cause a ten cent piece of plastic broke when they
thought they reconnected the stuff no problem

throw out that dot of plastic
get it in the ocean
so it floats with the rest of it
and won’t ever be lonely again

ordinary coffee 2

between time has begun in earnest,
sliding along a step at a time in this land
where coffee is not only a drug
it is the ritual, deeply set

saw Alberto a final time
had coffee, bid our goodbyes.
neither here nor beyond, i’m in prep time now,
thinking the way

then near home, woodworker Franco
tells me he’s moving from his shop,
saddened. his friends, already
thinking of his friends

twenty-five years in this place,
Franco has ripened and aged in this studio
of worn brick fabricated in the late middle ages.
he knows these ancient walls, having laughed and cried here

and we all have our paths,
the way for one is never
easy as it may appear to others.
expect and accept surprises

on the way keep your head up,
be alert through change, though fear it not.
remember - it is always easier to ride the horse
in the direction that it is going.

ordinary coffee

ordinary coffee and a roll with apple
at the bar unchanged for years
dark haired daughter works Monday
she knows our routine

M. went along this regular
laundry day for Bill and i.
now Luciano will be closing his place
moving to Thailand the end of the month

chef Bill will spend his 43rd year in Roma
then is on his way
to live with his brother in Atlanta,
we’ll return in the fall, that’s the plan

yesterday it was Chinese food
with Maria, Bruna and Luciana,
a Trastevere summery Sunday
we bid our goodbyes

quickly all happens,
so sudden to depart
our friendship. our adventure
oh, melancholy heart

more or lessing now

this whole thing is amazing
there’s seven billion of us
mostly the same
one head and the other parts
we put words together
that’s one way it starts

then what i come up with
is not all that unique
we’re in this together
that’s what i think

my poems are like yours
when you take ‘em apart
they’re all from the brain
run by the heart

so a salute to us is okay
from one and for all
give it your best,
have a nice day

saturday first thing

Saturday first thing
the crack of eight, remember that,
it's the hour to ransack Rome,
cause Romans sleep in the mornings

from our window above i observe a Bangladeshi
load the large wheeled wooden hand cart
for Campo dei Fiori venders Marco and Isa,
the guy needs the work, and they’re older now

we go out and down the alley way,
find Corado working alone at
Rosaria’s store, talk a bit.
he wants to see America some day

then to the laundry that still isn’t open
a half hour past the opening time written on the door.
after fifteen minutes of staring at the sign
we drag our cart to the Laundromat a few streets over

Crazy Mario is working, usually i go on Monday
with Bill the chef, when Luciano works there,
forever grumpy and dreaming aloud
of Thailand beaches, warm weather and low prices

our chores finished, we leave Roma by car to discover
it’s the day, it’s the hour, it’s what every Disneyland in
the world wants to be, charming as Sacrafano’s
medieval village center, rock village on a hill

now freshly green, deep springtime in the air
we have a coffee and walk around.
then to Alberto’s delightful home in the wild,
for lunch, half Calabrese cuisine,

half plain out of this world
Albie’s an artist, even when he cooks.
i’d tell you more but the page is nearly full,
must save room for desert.

road again

some road cops on the cruise
with nothing to do get a kick
driving fast and laying on the siren
they passed us like a bat out of hell

stopped for lunch at a mom and pa diner
in an atomic particle of a town.
out front a parking space for two was open
‘til that guy in front of me pulls into it

goes right in the middle
takes it all, he does
not thinking of me or you,
that’s how Italbillys do

during, before and after pasta,
vegetables, warm pie and coffee, i sort
piles of notes from my pockets
x ‘em out when they’re done, i do

at home i keep one of the old cigar boxes dad used
little notes and numbers
written all over it
a boy has to learn somewhere

the Giant Cyclops had it right
tell the villagers to leave some sheep
tied up by the cave at the bottom of the hill
or there’s going to be trouble, problem solved

lunch was home cooked good
made new friends
learned the river was down,
not rushing like years before

a local truck, vegetables in the back
parked outside
after lunch we gandered,
chatted, got fruit, we did

the road home, windows up against the chill,
all the way we could smell the strawberries
nestled in the trunk of the car.
now that’s a poem, partner

i smile satisfied

crossing traffic
with bullfighter ease
having done it before
it’s a breeze

turning left
then I squeeze
across the lane
step, step

like a dance
kind of nifty
Hey - that SOB
almost hit me

baby down the well

baby down the well,
what the hell?
half a world away people talk
like it’s going on next door

next thing the playoff games
shadowed out by Dancing with the Stars,
you need some more distraction,
we’ve got robots going to Mars

so many i don't know

been through so many books
don’t know what all i’ve read,
who wrote them
or what they all said

while some of it took,
seems the most of it, i dread,
is floating here somewhere,
swirling downstream in my head

since the colosseum

in Roma the paper trail
dreadful long, runs deep,
employment for a relative,
nothing to do with efficiency

if they’re selling chances
don’t bet against it,
the outcome is fixed in stone,
that’s how it goes

Roma has the reputation
to convolute everything,
and lives up to it
every imaginable way

out of Roma ahead of the volcano

set a land speed record
on an intercity bus to the termini
the driver was in a hurry
to smoke or pee or call mama on his break

at the train station
oh the humanity
European victims of the volcano cloud
hurrying in, to find a way out

training south we stopped at Formia
a knowledgeable passenger said we’d be stopped a few minutes
i was three seconds from stepping off for a walk outside
as the door snapped closed and the train took off

a guy who saw it all
said it was close to disaster for me
and nearly smiled
when he said it

through Naples we passed
a dozen twenty story
apartment buildings with balconies
on all sides, all the way down

in Sapri stayed at a downtown hotel
a small park away from the sea
the racket was traffic and breaking waves of humanity
it was a fine afternoon

that evening at a local bar
i had a beer, M. had a glass of wine
served by the youngest bartender in Europe
my shoes are older than him

crashing waves
whish of the trees
laughing people
between us and the sea

so the volcano puffs
airports close
we had enough
soon we’re heading home

fat mouse sleeping

fat mouse sleeping
is how we travel usually,
but not this bus, we let the good one go,
and took one with the square wheels

and the driver who that very morning
dropped off his mother,
three sisters and fiancee
at the nut house

his grin as he drove reminded me of the odd man,
a regular at a lunch counter in San Francisco,
with the black rubber toupee that clung to his head
like a sleeping alligator, i shuddered

and looked over to M. to see how she rode,
one hand on the saddle horn like a broncobuster
grinning without hanging on
and knew she was fearless

fat mouse sleeping
is where i wanna be
but not on this bus
the one with square wheels

the world's most expensive carpet

6.2 million dollars, the world’s most expensive carpet
sold, how about that and what do you know,
my carpet is for sale right now
for 6.3 million, the one by the door

put that in the Guinness record book
as the highest price asked for a carpet
call the queen or someone
Paris Hilton or Sharon Stone maybe

i’ll put a sign on the back of my pickup truck
and drive down to the Pied Piper
the local ice cream place and celebrate
i’ll buy – they’ll probably only get small cones

wait – let me think about this,
i won’t need a shot of botox will i?
couldn’t they use an old picture of me
or one of Pierce Brosnan and say it’s me?

maybe i’d better just drink
my morning coffee and think about it,
yeah, i do want to be reasonable,
yeah, that’s me, good old Mr. Reasonable

so life is but a dream

so life is but a dream,
here’s one to sleep on,
we rocket back in time, she and i

take our journey in a flash,
contract it into a night
to see some high points

spend two days at that place
high above the beach in Zijuatenejo
have a nice dinner under stars

two days in the Piute mountains
our cabin , old friends dropping by
the wood stove, where it all began

two days on the boat in Sausalito
the cat’s there lying in the sun
what a decade that was

two days with my folks in Ohio
two with yours in Arizona
make those family festive occasions,

two in Hawaii on bicycles and camping
two in Italy on trains, busing, walking,
wine, pasta and pizza of course,

add two in Sonoma on the crazy oats ranch,
a couple of days here, a couple there,
a whirlwind happy couple dream

we rode the long ride
rose and fell with the tide
and iknow, sweetheart, we’d do it again

like gamblers with fortune smiling
we had the cards and the stars in our favor
someone’s watching over us

packed for business

waiting by the stop, standing there
saw one aged, elbow high on M.
looked shorter, had tall hair,
the bus arrived, all boarded

thirty minutes later i tried to call M.
to let her know i was still on the bus
and that i was thinking of her,
sadly, i found her phone was off

she was up there somewhere
in the front of the same bus as me,
stuck and folded in the pile of humanity,
excommunicato

out the widow i saw at a glance a guy walking
head down thinking hard hands in the pocket of his pants,
nearly walked in front of the bus
where the hell was his wife?!

SRO, never seats enough
designed in Italy for beauty,
never function, you want to ride,
you need a ticket and gumption

and we made the run
had some fun
got stuff done
it’s never easy

doing what we can
as woman and man,
plus a crowd of others,
world sisters and brothers

and to you i can say
whether work or play, until it’s done
let it gleam and shine in every way
cause this is your day in the sun

tram this time

riding an underground mortuary
with the undead, where the noise of screeching
is paralyzing, the cost of grease must have
rocketed on the wings of the price of oil

eight stops and one-half migraine later
above ground, near empty ears
vibrate from a train passing
in the other direction

at last we had finally made it
to Hell’s End
to wait for a bus, it was sunny
my jacket now too heavy

thirty minutes later the bus arrived
when all boarded
the driver left
for a 15 minute break

foreigners aboard
heading for the office of immigration
to redo papers and fingerprints in case they changed
all for the pleasure of remaining in Italy

with the bus seemingly packed
at the first stop
we topped off, packed again
just to be sure it was filled to capacity

now my jacket acted like a heat blanket
felt a draft of cool air,
must have been a mistake
or the breath of an evil spirit

at the new office
200 people in a space for fifty
18 windows do business,
three were open

we had twenty minutes
window close at 1130, then reopen after lunch at 330
but we made it in time to hear
we should come back in the fall

seems we were here just a century ago
when we got back in the subway
zipping the way they say takes time
off a test-tube rat’s life

then near the termini
the happy people, 2
sat down for Indian Fast Food,
ate lunch and swallowed defeat

the elevator

across the street
workers were taking down letters
of the store name - Rinascimento
large metal script going one at a time

right into the trash
the name of the store could be read
on the unpainted wall
where for years the letters had hung

only O remained,
i was thinking
how i could use it
before it went down the drain into history forever

on my way into a nearby building,
a guy by the door was playing a violin so badly
he should offer people coins from his cup
for the aggravation he caused all too eagerly

i barely squeezed into the elevator
as the door closed it took off shaking chains,
one of those old rattling jobs
that sounded like Jacob Marley’s ghost

the little barred box we were in
was a packed rocket ascending,
as i noticed over the elevator door
900 kg 12 persons, a warning

i saw it too late for us,
we were locked down in a cage of the type
used to load wild animals
aboard a ship in Borneo in ancient times

there were too many in here,
couldn’t count them all,
that large one counts for two
had to start over three times

carry the four, 900 kilos divided into 12 people
is how much? nine into 12,
two zeros left
I’ll use them later,

reminded me of the letter O
i left behind,
must do the math quickly
or ring the bell and run

it’s about an eight floor building
high enough if it goes down fast,
i suppose there is a basement,
count that as another floor to drop

i broke out in a sweat
as the box quit shaking
and hung there
having arrived at some floor

didn’t matter where,
the door opened everyone bailed,
headed for the stair
before we all got impaled

your invitation

to walk in the woods
birds over head, rolling clouds in the blue
by roads end, long grass and sticks,
kick around shall we, with family and friends

some sunny afternoon time together,
stretch into evening purple shadows
bring food and drink to share
we’ll make a warm fire

take along your musical instrument
for sweet sounds, we’ll sing along
remember a soft blanket to sit on
goodwill will ring in our voices

when you like, old friend
whenever we can
let’s make it happen,
consider this a personal invitation

review

each day i note in quick review
stories true or fabricated
nothing untoward in what i do
brief impressions are here related

passing trains inside our head
haul events that we recall
piled higher than our daily bread
no way can we digest it all

lived in a ghost town

lived two years in a ghost town,
was a small graveyard
and a few cabins
there on the mountain

four or five folks lived within a few miles
a few more came on weekends
the judge married us there
amid a gathering of family and friends

we lived an hour from the nearest town,
our post office box,
traffic, a store or two
and people in general

electricity, none to speak of,
running water was a stream
and our well we pumped by hand
on a log tripod with wooden spool and rope

we had a battery powered radio
the scary programs on CBS mystery theater
was our nine p.m. entertainment
with a fire in the pot belly stove

and wind in the trees,
on moonless nights
after a scary show i’d accompany her
to the outhouse

once a park bear
that got too used to handouts
was dumped off in our part
and showed up on our porch

he got his nose
in some white lime powder
then stood on our porch on his hind legs
and left his powdery white nose print on our screen door

lucky for me he went away when i yelled at him
and he didn’t step through the screen into the kitchen
or it would have been suddenly
very crowded in there

stories and good times
we had a lot of them
our time in the woods
makes me smile thinking

The Internet Alerts Us

my morning coffee ritual
in our dark somber apartment in Rome
was speed jolt interrupted as
M. read aloud the full story

direct from the Internet
of the alarm caused by a guy
who smoked in the first class restroom
aboard a plane flying to Denver

when asked by security what he was doing
because they had smelled smoke in the bathroom,
he jokingly said he was lighting his shoes on fire.
they slammed him in his seat and cuffed him

causing two scrambled fierce military jets to accompany
the airliner while landing or, if need be, shoot it down.
bringing to mind actor and later President Ronald Reagan
who once said, “Lucky Strike means fine tobacco.”

as i quietly sipped my coffee in the far away zone
and thanked my lucky stars the Internet keeps us
informed and alert to the goings on
in restrooms high over Denver and other places

then went back
to finish watching
a six year old prodigy
play the piano in China

been on the road

been on the road and made it
back to Rome from away
quite a week it was.
label us vacationed to the hilt.

she drove the lion share, has the stuff
to persist, fight traffic and hold the gate.
now back, unpacked, thank goodness,
tomorrow we recuperate

can't see it

i can’t see it as a whole
not as well as you.
yes, i write this everyday,
from the middle where it’s spinning fast

i don’t see it as others do,
for it pops in pieces in front of you
in carefree digestible bits.
you have an idea how it goes

better to look from afar,
analyze the pieces.
and then tell me what happened
when it’s over

another life

in another life,
i’m pretty sure
i wasn’t king or queen
or dog or cat

i think i was a dandelion,
and we’d just grow
with nothing to know,
tens of thousands of us

turning our heads
to honor the light of the sun
we sang together
a lot of songs

never had words to learn
we’d just turn
to the sun and knew the music,
we were like one

water spray

the water spray
sky is gray
this early April day

and we rise for the occasion
content being here,
having been bestowed this reward

approximations

Italian national TV news at seven
is an approximation of the starting time,
could be three or four minutes later,
it all depends,
so don't set your clock by it

lines down the middle of streets in Roma
also are approximations,
indications for vehicles
that give a general idea where to drive,
you better bet your life on it

of the sea

the music of continuous waves
beat cleanses my soul
repeatedly bringing dreams,
stir turning clear waters

until fragile yellow
washes dawn silver sea,
sky grows light blue
and new gold day begins

somewhere, down Italy
to here by car or train
have returned to dream, digest and breathe
this thing again

from the terrace
over sounding waters
star light calls, i tell them
let’s go, take me

until that time comes
i’ll dream and wait,
these waves in my heart
have a place for me

somewhere out of time
a poets corner of many words
beyond the angle of night
a deep universe in order

i live near the sea
no matter where home
appears to be
or where rest my bones

in high wind
the long blue and fish
is where i begin,
my deepest wish

by the snap of sail,
pull of the tide
when you tell the tale
know there i hide

for i am of the sea
through not by address
a longing inside called water
calls to me more often than less

Antonio Salvatore

on the little electric bus
i sat next to a fellow with a case
and a bandaged right hand
we talked, immediately got along well

a very interesting guy
with a home in the Albino hills outside of Rome
a boat he loves in Sardegna
i told him we lived ten years on a boat
in Sausalito, on San Francisco bay

he’s doing a concert in San Fran April 24
he’s Antonio Salvatore a world class violinist
always first violinist for Ennio Morricone,
travels the world, many awards to his credit

we talked until my stop ended our chat
i’m sorry i didn’t have a card to give him,
an immediate acquaintance lost in fleeting encounter,
best wishes, Antonio

pajamas

my wife bought me pajamas
some wives do that you know
these i’ve had for a decade
and don’t like them, never did

they look like Polish clown pants
ok, so i’m of Polish blood
and i do clown around a bit
so . . .
. . . . hey, wait a minute
. . . . . cancel cancel
. . . they’re really not that bad

bad rainbow

my umbrella worked
wore it low like a hat
had a stick on it to hold on to,
was psychedelic in nature

the color was majorly blue, dark
ominous, but nice handle,
you had to own one like it
to understand

alone at the wooden table
a glass away from foul weather
i peer out disheartened,
where did my lousy umbrella go?

self satisfied

self satisfied are you?
i need your attention,
this is about you

when you feel you know,
when you have finally learned
that you’re not as smart
as you think you are

that very point is equivalent
to dawn in you,
the breaking open of daylight’s first rays,
the new beginning

don’t think about the afternoon
or days end as yet,
you still have a long way to go
until lunch time

Giancarlino Benedetti Corcos

hats off to Giancarlino
he did the floor tiles for a bar on the corner
this is a step for his ever changing face
in the art bowl

as he moves on in art
making a mess
turning in the tide
doing his part

while nibbling on the money bone
he’s having fun
and i respect him for that,
that and being a good person is what it’s all about

It’s what you figure out
and convey in your work
that will let everyone know
you are really a writer.

another space between

another space between
on a bus way out again,
way up denial, 27 march,
one month into chronic birthday digestion

make a note
sound waves, light waves, ocean waves
slow waves, fast waves, wet waves
more stuff you don’t have to Google

on the bus with folks from Nigeria
the six year old kid was quiet and observant
obviously not a TV junky, make a note -
dots of sun light from a board with holes - do it

not thinking of you, like the two end to end
parking spaces open and a one car pulls in the middle
and essentially takes two
he was not thinking of you either

deep up denial again, but it’s all true
i could tell we were far out of the city
when we saw a guy leading two camels,
at least they were on the sidewalk

sometime notes i make on the bus
can’t be deciphered because of the jiggle
but i know what i saw
about the camels i mean, i do so verify

note: when Italians count on their fingers
unlike America where one is the index finger
here, one is the thumb
just thought i’d let you know

m. just read a news story online
about a man arrested for trying to revive
a road kill possum
with mouth to mouth resuscitation

then TomC writes to say
he couldn’t digest his cornflakes or something
cause i skipped a day
pshaw! maybe when i was ten

i could have skipped all day.
what i did was lose a day just like
Ray Miland in Lost Weekend, Billy Wilder, 1945,
in which he played an alcoholic

and i just saved you more Googling
maybe Google lost some money then
and/or will make it up
somewhere else

note - if i wrote this in paragraph form
and you printed it, it’d waste money
on ink for big letters and periods
or space there of

city advantage

we saw one of three films featured
by the director Kurosawa
from 1949, in black and white,
free admission for the early show

a two minute walk from home
our neighborhood theater, time was right,
students and old people were there
subtitles in Italian, you can’t have everything

the theater was warm, i held my coat,
the people in the film were hot
sweating, every scene
we could see them beaded, dripping,
mopping their faces to remind us

after two hours it began to rain
just in the film,
still the heat continued for them and us,
but now muggy with rain

for 17 hours that seemed like 2
if you still believe in clocks
then it ended, and they let us leave
just like that

we had endured and
liked it a lot,
that’s what years in Italia can do to you,
so watch yourself

massive paralyzing total transit strike

another
massive paralyzing total transit strike
averted,
canceled at the last moment.

as they run, so we shall ride
into the dark heart of urban chaos

didn’t want to get halfway into
the jaws of hell,
some lonely half-deserted road
left to hike out,

have done that already.
what’s this?

a woman trying to be sixteen
and fifty pounds lighter
boards the bus
in brilliant shiny ultra high spike heels
with dagger toe points like a swordfish
waddling from pole to pole
a performing penguin
with red claws,
dainty as can be

as making notes
i ride deep up denial
longing for looking
on something for always,
or pizza for eating,
just a bite
save me

i can’t help it
or me or you
so don’t ask
i’ll say i never heard of it
just the truth
nothing butt,
take me up denial,
cruise by,
say,is that the Sphinx on your head
or just a stylish new hat?

getting off the bus
i look down to see
a flash of white in front of me
my zipper is half way down
and my shirt is sticking through
about half a foot's worth
like a large white rabbit's ear

as they run, so we shall ride
into the dark heart of urban chaos

graffiti

on a bus ride
that took us
to the other side
of the city

by the University of Rome
a large sign roughly spray painted on a wall
read: spegni i muti, scendi i bance
extinguish the fines, light the banks

8 in my pocket

i carried an 8 in my pocket
cause I heard it would
bring me money,
the next day got 500 euro

cash in my hand
came to me unexpectedly,
i immediately counted it
as coincidence

when the purpose of
carrying an 8 in my pocket
was to bring in money.
what do you think?

should i continue
to carry the number 8
written on a piece of paper
in my pocket?

tell you what,
i have a friend that needs it
i’ll give him an eight
to carry in his pocket

marathon

a storm of choppers
over gatherers at the coliseum
and Piazza Venezia,
the heart of Rome

9:05, a five minute delay for television transmission
then it begins,
the front line twenty
then the ten thousand unfold

balloon carriers, applause, waves,
whistles, cameras, banners,
cheers for the courageous ,
the marathon runners of Rome 2010

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

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

enjoy my words

enjoy my words, take a spin,
they are yours to hitch on
i’ve put them down for you again
but you know them in your heart

like the sun and the rain and the stars,
the wind and the snows
and the moon that rolls over head too
for all of them and love, for me, for you

and the fishes in the seas
and the bears in the woods
the birds in the sky
and the horse you rode in on

snow is on the way

snow is on the way
let’s sit back and watch time slip away
the kettle’s on the boil now
and the sun shot it’s last ray
let’s call it a day

if i

if i wasn’t running at the limit
floored in the fast zone
with three giant double rigs
trying to pass me on a curve

i’d jam your mailbox with fragment
flower pieces exploding fragrant color.
any time you like, say you need me,
i’ll be there

evaluating

evaluating after, how it came to pass,
the quick visit, our participation
they came, we there for them here,
around Roma then beyond, hang on

between rains and scattered sunshine
a meal to remember, the man, the ambiance, flavors,
a train ride, hilly green country along the way
photos taken, everywhere history on display,

people rushing, passing glimpses, no names,
man with blue funny hat, beggars, young people talking loudly,
others become connections, we talk, exchange names
proving - open of mind you discover

had to pay eleven euro to enter the museum
my birthday 65 is next week, then i enter free damn me free,
the young man at the counter said his line as it was written,
i saw it as a chance for humanity to work out details together,
overall i was seven days short and eleven euro lighter

back to their trip, in a nutshell, made choices
saw this, missed this other
no time for that, or i didn’t think of it
or was closed for the day, save some for next time

overall , the familial trip ends, what said remembered sketchy
air plane in, air plane out
flash trip snap, then zap, it’s over
Kodak had it right, we need photos,
besides - that’s what drawers are for

you just get on board

warped in mind they emerge from airport swirl
we train along with other weary passengers
to the central station in Roma, the Termini
then got on a bus, it departs

looking back we notice not all of us got on the bus
Kate is standing there
good bye, goodbye, Kate, fare thee well
we’ll find you in about a month,

it’s a big city,
if we look for you
if you’re lucky,
if the gypsies don’t get you first and sell you

miracle of miracles, never have i seen this,
just as i wave goodbye
the bus stops, and waits for her
their vacation is saved

and now it begins in earnest,
we’ll run them, fun them
let them sleep when the vacation is over,
for this is a trip of a lifetime, more or less, we’ll see
i don’t want to exaggerate

poemcholia

at times after i write them
i want to hold them tight then,
not turn my pet mice-like poems loose
out of the sock drawer to scamper, taking flight

snap-like go-now puppies on the run
out on their own rolling
beyond my control
out of reach, out of sight

crossing the street
against the light,
a lone drifter may find them and take comfort
some blue dark eerie night

that’s okay, though It’s still not through
cause then, of my poems,
what is left will creep around
eventually, to snuggle up with you

so it’s all okay,
i think
therefore i am okay,
i think

thank

thanks for looking
attention is a starting point
for rounds beyond bounds, yes it is
thanks for being you,
you have something on your sleeve there

every encounter
your pleasant manner charms
i know it isn’t easy
there’s certainly plenty with which to contend
i thought someone was checking invitations

you do well
i’ve got to say
my friend, see you again
another day
that’s his mother’s coat i recognize it

when you don’t quite understand
what is going on
it’s always better
to keep one hand
on your wallet

walk with me

walk with me this chill afternoon for a stretch, a dash
to capture light between buildings on our waning grey afternoon,
giving change to this day, hiding away from cold light drizzle,
it is winter and we have become weary of the season

while in this ancient city, Roma, it’s a traveler’s duty to lurk
these miserable damp streets, grey stone lanes we know well,
above , lights cast gay walking shadows on fine lace draperies
in grand high-life quarters, of which we’re forever strangers

a dark hovel is our consolation, dreary chamber we can afford,
fragrant luxury is wafting from farther down the street,
there, anointed families that have treasured this area for generations,
while, as fate would have it, we measure as the unfortunate newcomers

briefly passing through this place, we are contending,
dodging history in the evolution of the extended saga,
as a smudged foot note, on a page in the chronicle of events
that will carry well on, beyond us, murky into the long forever

Shahjan

this waiter at Bufetto Due
immigrated from Bangladesh,
has been working here three years,
during pre- crowd time we chatted

a good and gentle soul,
observant to see a kindred spirit,
took time to exchange words
brought us a lemoncello in parting

though only an acquaintance,
and heaven knows they come and go,
i wish Shahjan well on the journey
and peace, and happiness, i surly do

learning to help

pre-Christmas two years ago
all was quiet, even the mice, until
i crossed the street in front of a bus
fell and broke my wrist in three places

by the time i made it home
M. had a fine evening meal prepared
so i ate, needing only one arm for soup,
it was delicious, then went to the hospital

considerate M. waited four days
before she fell and broke her ankle,
our first broken bones were a teaching,
as we spent the holidays helping each other

the radio on

the radio on while driving
matching wits with news makers
often winning arguments, yelling out the window
i go on auto pilot,

making new slogans for commercials
often forgetting to signal,
with the window open i get wet
persistence keeps me on the road

i have learned to turn the wipers on,
lights would be fine if i could find them,
paying attention while driving is a good idea,
but i don’t seem the type

if lost i keep going
as long as there is gas in the tank
i know i could drive a taxi
those that i assist will tip me

of time

as it should be
tomorrow is unknown
and will arrive
in due time

it is far more advantageous
to retread carefully
lessons to be learned
from yesterdays

snowfall joy / blizzard of Roma

snowfall joy
from warm looking out
see those flake giants

barging down elbow to elbow
churning thick
tumbling fat boys

elated, she got me outside
hat gloves scarf bundled
treading the rare blizzard of Roma

where Piazza Navona is white open,
a snowball or two launched in Campo dei Fiori
then all too soon, sun comes out

off center

oh, bus in the rain
i’m back again, do you hear me
feeling no pain
only a little, look, i’m riding

must be the cold,
i can do dreary, getting old, and consider,
combine that with wet, not complaining yet,
see, like i said, it’s raining

talked to a guy from the Congo
studying on about priestly stuff
when i heard and had enough
got off the bus, lead by pure inspiration

M. said to ask those mechanics three
it was M., them and me
they pointed to a place - across the street
it’s good, they said, where we always eat

and just as i heard them say
was a mighty fine buffet
with prices better
this quick bus ride away, slightly off center

open ended conversation

on the radio
some call to say something
others call in
to be heard

walking down the street some talk
on the phone a long time
without pause for the other
is anyone really there?

always there are those
on the bus ceaselessly talking
fogging the window,
and have no phone

out styling

walking up a block
on Victtorio Emanuele where ahead is
a woman glowing several opposing colors, long skirt,
shawl, head dress, conflicting designs, and bangles

shoes mainly bright purple
with sparkles and curling trim,
bent low, working on a bag
what is this?

gypsies have gone conventional these days,
disguised away from tradition to blend in
facial features, eyes and hair identify them
surly this throwback must . . .

the woman stands and turns my way
by her face and hair
i she is Italian, evidently a
fashion statement out styling

to genial grey shoe man

to genial grey shoe man
again this week, where fifteen euro
resole and re-heel the repentant,
i bid two pair

one pair unaccepted, condemned
to hopeless misery, mine,
sticker them -
caution, for home use only

along the return way
wood man on cobblestone lane
before his shop working a cabinet into being
in greeting for me spontaneously

sang a made up song
i’ll translate - “the situation with my sister
doesn’t go well.”
i laughed out loud

between buildings
slats of sun
dump warmth out of season,
most desirable

heard a sound

heard a sound
in bed
going round
in my head

thought
it odd
i said
and thought it out

‘til it was gone
turns out
i was right
it was odd

if you're really Dave

somehow i evaporated comments
for Mr. Hill and woodsmoke
guilty i am - and no wonder,
without a secretary who else to blame?

if you’re really a Dave,
and you’re really an Andy
that makes three of us
who are whom we say.

as world population, now 6.8 billion,
grows a quarter million a day,
though some die, mean growth is steady
and eighty percent live on less that two euros a day

my retired friend used her life savings
to put a down payment
on a small 300,000 euro apartment
and can’t afford a computer, who will cry?

my dear, very crazy, very intelligent friend told me
we're all doing the best we can.

offering recognition now, here's to Julie
do read this heart to love

and, to you all, thanks for reading here
the augmented verse i'll continue to offer

until i’m through.
and you know, i won't be the last
other have said, by God,
it all happened so fast

now i am one

times ago when a novice to Italia
went on the road two months,
a touring play with a dozen Italians
coffee together, every meal, every day

coffee in the morning, you say
i can do that, start my day
or so it seemed, so i’d say
yet when it came all was outlandish new

disorderly turmoil, without deviation
coffee with these, the experienced,
weaned by the ages, since the beginning,
habitual action conferred by generations

my patterns needed compromise to function
i watched, i participated, adjusting i learned,
how long it takes, precisely how it is done
many roads that lead to the one

not of my bloodline,
infelicitous and extrinsic
day after day, until now,
now i am one

Mr. Hill

Mr. Jack, someone said the other day
my minds eye brought forth Everett Hill,
fragile, thin, gray, well beyond retirement age,
stayed on the job as the sweeper

there was an agreement,
when the old owner/boss retired,
he left word that Hill, as we all called him,
could stay on long as he could push a broom

it was a large city TV station
where a regular evening crew
cleaned the offices, waxed he floors
and took out the trash

when someone would get angry and cursed,
if Hill was around he’d call out
“don’t chew be bitter now, Mickie”, or whoever,
light heartedly he enlightened us

Hill was a daytime fixture
in the lobby, if it seemed interesting
or, in one of two large studios
casually dragging his long handled push broom

our work was in the studio
getting ready, working a show
then putting our things away
Hill was always around, just around

Mr. Jack is what Hill called me
he called everyone Mr. whatever their name was,
the important ones he used the last name
we the workers were Mr. First Names

for as long as he could show up
that was the deal that Hill stuck to, often reminding ,
as he does now working with the heavenly crew,
with a smile and a shake of the head,“now, don’t be bitter”

wood smoke

i split part of a small bottle of Chinotto,
an Italian soda since 1949,
somewhat like coke, but bittersweet
M. and i sat talking and sipping

she said our flower girl, who was eight back then,
this week sent an email saying she saw
Claraville in the Sierra Nevada of California
and our old buildings on Google satellite

thirty years ago we were married amid the pines
on Piute Mountain, when we were young, before
Google, email and we'd ever thought of living in Italy
now flower girl has her own daughter eight

our friends Lonesome Al, Piute Jerry and Cutter Bill
have all gone off to some hidden mountain cabin
reeking of pine, sipping hooch and laughing
i am sure they all are all laughing

now and then, in contemplation, M. and i recall
those rollicking times, warm fires and adventures
precious, pleasant memories all,
filled with friends, long starry nights and wood smoke

a little sun

a break from the february cold
we're in reprise with good sun
from the window
i confirm fair weather

below, the blue coated white haired woman
over from seaside Ostia on a day trip
teetering along with her elderly daughter
to their smiles i salute with cheery greetings from above

out the door then we encounter Mario
the antiquarian in front of his shop working
a piece of furniture over a pair of saw horses
we nod as he keeps sawing

then Stefano, flakes of white plastered face and clothes,
greets us, he reports that in all of Italy there are
three cases of chicken pox, one of his small children
has it, ready to pass it to the other

high up the lady who walks her two small white dogs
is at her window in the arch
that spread across our tiny street
talking to a neighbor in another window

we say ciao to Franco One
then a step later ciao Franco Two,
both do furniture restoration
in their workshops on this street

Marjia passes next, just back from a month
visiting her mother in Finland
with an imperial salute she reports this high,
snow there is chest high

Marina the ceramic painter crowds through
in her auto, where one rarely comes by
it’s the only vehicle we encounter
in a half-block walk on this cobblestone way

finally, at the corner an old store keeper
sits catching sun in a rocker
her old husband is nearby talking with a friend
we good morning them all

then to the market, the Chinese side of the train station
loading our cart, see a tiny old woman, tall as my waist,
bent forward walking, her sailor’s deck-mop sheep dog grey and
white hair blows ahead in the light wind, and proceeds her

i take the cart the rest of the way home
while M. goes for a free Christmas ball from the Vatican tree, but
returned to report the tree remains dead, decorated and standing
usually it is down by Valentines Day

we have to be there on the day they are taking it down
no notice is posted, we keep checking
as in all of life
timing is everything

in a while

once in a while,
the very while
that occurred
this afternoon

it seemed learning
or along that vein,
had to do with
keeping mouth closed

when then we saw Bruno and Wendy
Wendy’s sister was there too
that’s what Bruno said, and better that i waited
instead of asking if this was Wendy’s mother

their two kids were also tagging along
ages seven and ten
we knew them before they married
not the kids - Wendy and Bruno

the kids we never knew
because they never were
when that ago time existed
once, in a while

day watching

day watching each slipping
gracefully along
nearly asleep walking
blinking then away

gone drifting
one moment droplets
in life’s stream, drip passing
to clear dark cool river

flowing steady beyond
lake to locks
becoming roll folding
soft blue oceans

whispers fog again
globe breathing
circling with fishes
gather mists

clouds building grey darker
all above sailing
over birds
on wings of winds

gradually reformed
now droplets
fall again lovely
light rain

january emptied out

making notes i am
sorting words, stacking cards
one dog barking

i glance up at dark blurs
some birds boring blindly
misted into running low grey clouds

on the hill above, the Gianicolo,
a cannon fires a wisp of grey into the chill
the city beyond hears the signal and knows it Is noon

we board a bus of content silence, scarves and caps
off for a bite of lunch, our own words begin, blend,
weave and overlap with the others

then a little walking
through the crowds
a lot of talking

don’t hear what they’re saying
making plans I suppose,
some gesturing, pointing

laughing young women
heads together
recount social victories

few small children pulling against their mothers
today many little wrapped ones in blankets
lulled to silence in four wheeled strollers

temperature is dropping
who is content?
some calm hangs poised over complacency

after evening buses slow, then cease
overnight becomes the soundless
when imagination is the only border