core thought

core thought
at home thinking a spark
where day starts,
all begins in the dark.

five this morning
playing piano in my head
figuring it out, doing the left hand,
making it better, keeping it tight, lying in bed.

and i said, time moves on, six-thirty; oh,
the sun is on the mask now, the stone medallion
over the door on the building opposite our window.
i’m up this instant and want to take a photo of it.

the mask is already
a few hundred years old
and i want to preserve it
forever, on celluloid? am i joking?

and i take one, it is blurry.
i take five, all are blurry.
for one minute some days,
some times i think of

these swans in stone, this family seal.
the sun kisses it brief moments, mornings
when it is sunny. if i am looking
at the right time, in the right month, i see it.

though, can’t think of it now, planning this day, i am.
have to make breakfast and shower,
then catch a train to pick up the car.
we’ll find a place to park it when we get here

back to where we start, some other hour
at the beginning, home again
at the beginning of the day
then, when the sun is rising

geese - the significant

when driving in a dream there is
no need to signal, yet i cordially wave and smile.
traffic heavy melts together on the road,
shut my eyes and nod off into a cat nap.

in a splash, came to wakeful senses
i did in a crowd. horns honking.
waved back, had the change,
paid the toll. told myself i could finish

this dream, in an hour, if i rush.
hit the gas, checked the time
and then realized an hour had already passed.
time flies, you know, some say, they’re right, some time.

took another bite of sandwich,
chewed slowly while i wondered
where i got it and how to hold it
with two hands while driving?

seemed mayonnaise enough to me ,
i smiled at the hearty bread, tasty as reality,
with long green salty seeds in it,
and the tomato slipping out.

aware that all the red was taillights
all the honking were wild geese
making restful music as i
closed my eyes to finish dreaming.

thinking the one last conscious thought,
that i like geese, i really do.
never met one though to get to know,
i’d surly like to.

Rome Christmas cone lasts one day

a man seated at an outside restaurant table,
in sport and open collar shirt,
was sipping a cappuccino.
noticing him reminded me the pre-Chrismas weather's fine.

as we circled the center of Rome,
where only yesterday a forty foot tall
red and mostly white paper mache
inverted cone was prominent on display,

we had debated briefly about what it was,
and why it was there
where the holiday tree usually sits,
and wondered who came up with that idea?

has it gone now to where decorations go,
though always after the holiday,
not three weeks before,
not the day after it was put there?

someone else had noticed the strange cone,
someone with an influential voice in the city,
and must have concurred with us, it didn't work,
it looked absolutely stupid.

a voice spoke, “take it down.”
and probably advised,
“don’t ever try anything
stupid like that again.”

and is sipping a capuccino at this time
at an outdoor cafe,
wearing a sport coat and open-collar shirt
while fuming much less and enjoying the holiday season more.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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