Saturday, December 03, 2011

joy

joy in discovery of a photo forgotten,
from a church dedication, now bygone,
far back erased from our town.

featured is the crowd of spectators.
revelers clad in celebratory finery. captured
in black and white and grays; note the hats and horses.

you can feel their thoughts. they are in their eyes,
neat and clean. there must be light talk and music.
subtle, wonderful celebration is captured on their faces;

all stand firm in time, in their places
on a now forever bright fall day ago.
they are forever to remain satisfied.

burmashave

this cross marks
where he met his due
now on this bend
I’ll use one hand to
Burmashave.

Thursday, December 01, 2011

vegan wagon

night dark on a curve
fell off the vegan wagon,
toppled it, let it skid down the hill
over the falls, disappeared in the rapids.

last seen breaking up,
heading downstream,
sails up while under
a full head of steam.

wasn’t my fault.
collided with a
sweet scent
at the fair.

wouldn’t buffalo you,
nothing was fare.
like love, babe,
you just had to be there.

Master of Hah!

jack of all trades
all of my life
i am writer, actor,
musician and artist

friends have said,“you can do everything”
to these i say Hah!
don’t ask me to do your dental work
or adjust your brakes.

so goes life,
you get what you see.
though, i have been a doctor -
played one on TV.

flaps down

one night in Arizona heading home
after dinner at Tony’s
the commander driving us
through the mountains . . .

he floored it to pass
we went heads back in our seats,
I asked then, “Tom, you miss
flying those PBY’s, do ya?

and we all laughed well,
ah, yes we did.
now we pause to remember
our time with the Commander.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

miracle banana

on the internet a picture of a face
on a banana. some speak of miracles
others question the face
of john the Baptist.

why no beard?
others explain he
was only about twelve or thirteen
when this banana was taken.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

words unspoken

mystic words unspoken
scribbled out in haste
placed in a box
the lid down tight

all were not thought about
until today when, as the plane took me
over the patch work quilt leading to Philadelphia,
suddenly recalled those fragments

not entire to be called poem
so no one under the wind will recognize
precisely what those pieces are
until i weave patches together

Monday, November 28, 2011

the still life

walked by one of mine
stopped to straightened it
in pause i saw
captured in arranged space

the shelf and wall
with objects irregularly lined,
positioned with care
as painted there
in restful scene forever.

working the morning hour
every day for less than a week
to collect the relative same natural light
before the sun moves and light changes.

in reflection of colors,
a recreation of the space,
this representative reproduction
as I see, as I do
within time available
a man makes art
then hangs it on the wall

Sunday, November 27, 2011

why you need poetry, or poe what?

twisting slosh clobber
ten thousand splashing waves crashing,
screaming into the face of the wind .
looking over i see the noise is emitted by
a kid at the next table eating breakfast cereal

daily bread
do not donut
why not
pilgrims cry
George M. Cohan sang
sailing, talking, running
for the long song
and that’s the short of it,
it’s all about the wind.

why do you need poetry
connected and rhythmic?
are you going to dance to it, or
lie down and cry over it?
what you have is your money’s worth

see what happens.
see what shows.
its now or over,
depending how
your day goes.
and the price of gas

a collection of words
to get into, gain light, float away,
or use it to better roll along the bottom.
endless are the possibilities.

Friday, November 25, 2011

while you're young

while you’re young
hike the peaks.
take some leaps.
come fall, rake leaves.

make tracks in the hills,
wander the hollow,
‘neath clouds high see ‘em go by
as the grand geese honk over.

evening, toast your pals
roast marsh mellows,
laugh now, gals and fellows tell your stories,
wrap it up over apple cider, then count the stars.

days pass, waxed on glass, you know.
then remember again, as you will,
the great times that passed
when we were young together.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

long distance evolution

on narrow cobble stoned streets
at noon in the throng of the old city
i passed a woman speaking in normal voice.
something odd about this caused me to stop.

hearing her calm voice i turned to watch.
in no way did she sound or look crazy.
her calm manner of dissertation seemed quite normal,
but there was no one to whom was she speaking.

she stood chin up, as if speaking to the wind.
i had to walk back and then begged to interrupt,
“mi scusi.” I asked to whom was she speaking?
she pointed up toward the building she was facing.

eighty feet away high up on the third floor her friend
looked down from an open window, smiled and nodded.
here at last is proof of the evolution of man
adaptation in the strength of neighborliness.

gleaming, rolling

from the bridge Garibaldi,
toward the island Tiberina,
the split Tevere river water runs swiftly.
a three foot falls is on the South side.

caught in the back water of the falls
are eight soccer balls rapidly turning ,
25 bright, shiny one- liter plastic bottles in motion,
sparkling iridescent light blue, green, orange and white.

bathing in exploding foam that surrounds all.
gleaming refracting sun jumps colors to life.
when you come to Rome be sure to look;
I’m sure it will till be there.

swift flows the river
but those rolling objects
aren’t leaving;
they like it there.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

poetry music, art

poetry, music, art
how i spend the hours;
need to squeeze in flowers
for the rhyme.

words, piano, drawing,
would say color
but doesn’t rhyme,
just makes music for the eyes.

Monday, November 21, 2011

here again some

where new and old is Rome altogether.
observing what is
and making note;
thus comes poetry out of this city.

took a cab across town to the district Parioli,
Fiat called me for a recording session.
later on a bus ride home a baby cries.
after a few minutes i move to the rear.

and cries relentless, poor child
it is twenty minutes to the termini
and cries.
voluntarily out early i transfer buses.

there is an alert.
a white medical van goes by
as siren calls i’m here, make way.
the van labeled as carrying blood and organs.

on then off another bus again
at Largo Argentina.
a place i know well,
though hardly time to look around

a third bus takes me for a few blocks,
and then walking now near home
i stop, because it was necessary.
had to to look into the hole.

men were working on the long deep ditch.
speaking with a co-looker i mention
the building right there
was a workshop of Michelangelo

see the faint painting on the side that his students did
the workers were seated, resting for lunch, listening
i said to my co-hole- looker that only men
stop to look in the holes.

one of the hole workers heard
and added, not only men,
also children always stop
to gaze in the hole.

so it is that good work,
as with poetry,
begins with the question:
what is down there?

and this time i do think
for sure, rightfully so, there may be
something most interesting hidden for ages from mankind
down there in that hole.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

spoke with five

spoke with five people in a church,
actually more a museum these days.
we and the they were in repose,
a respite from touring Roma.

bright, able and intelligent,
a refreshing splash revitalizing the reality of
this start of the second decade
of the twenty-first Century.

calm, quiet, sharp, all spoke observantly,
we would have taken them home right now;
course they’ve gone now, we lost ‘em.
what remains is spirit of rekindled hope for the future.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

on a stairway

on a stairway all the way
up the side of the house
is it redwood? i think so.
definitely spongy in places near the top

then i climbed on the outside of the rail
found a box with odd electrical parts
and a scrap of rumpled paper
with a handwritten note

that said, “.83 per kilowatt hour,
123 dollars for a month.“ could this be?
or is it solely an invention of dream
and possibly of poetry?

Thursday, November 17, 2011

bus drama

from the prime first seat i see
an old woman outside the door as it closes, she doesn't see me,
looking up she is mouthing pleading words to the driver
while he sits comfortably aloof looking straight ahead

she is manically asking help from God,
desperately imploring the baby Jesus
hands on the wheel the driver is warm in his glass booth
the elderly woman outside the door shakes her fist

i’m in the middle nearly between them
what should i shout - Hey, Whoa, Wait?
unable to quickly form helpful words
it all unfolds a breath before the bus departs

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

i write
i read
don’t request them
then look for comments anyway
do the necessities
keep things in order as best i can
my sister had a stroke recently.
also, and this also is an integral part of the whole;
i wrote my wife today and she agreed,
it is all passing so quickly.

this is the sixteenth day

how problem was found
and how it resolved
began with desire
to take a bus

the tobacchio man said sold out
no more November bus passes.
i settled for a one week pass,
paid sixteen euro.

which week of the two remaining will i ride?
the week begins when i punch the ticket.
should i ride the week in the middle
leave a few days on both sides?

sixteen euro is what i pay
for a leisurely full month fare.
i was fifty feet away
when i thought about it

then i went back
and exchanged the week pass
for sixteen individual tickets.
that will serve me well

there are shadows

set one two three
there’s a street light bright
showing through a tree bare for winter
cast upon the neighbors white garage

seen from our window
any dark November night
the large flat garage white
is engraved by intricate branch shadow

sharp and still as a pencil drawing
until breeze begins limbs clawing
creating overgrown powerful tentacles
bulging in menacingly creepy proportions