head's not empty

head’s not empty when
i lay there coated in dream dust
no sir, not a bit, you see
begins sometime after three

but im asleep so that’s a guess,
filled with visions more or less
bubbling walking, topped off
great adventure motion coastin’

the best, all rolling long, along
spinning, bubbling on and on, apply the brake;
smelling color, cooked well, dandy and polite enough,
good-time fancy dreaming 'til dawn occurs and i awake.

in this classroom called life
every day is another lesson.
do your best, stay true;
all moves on.

Roma's sun

Roma’s sun
is light you can dream on
you've heard of it. and so it is.
here so fine, this new day

softens colors
no winds to speak of
with river bridges
to look out over

up at pigeons
down on floating seagulls
i'm pleased to say this mellowing sight
is the the result of early morning pastel light of Roma

peeped out

peeped out this corner
of the muffin i was sleeping in
unfolded to a world of sunshine
over long green warm waving
howdy you and the day

blue sky, clouds rolling by
cookie cutter decorations dancing wow,
a happy dog skipping hills yonder
by fragrant flowers and a spinning water wheel.

kitty sunk down watching
from low in long waving green
wiggles forward
keeping a quiet low profile;
content as he ought to be;
perhaps a tad more alert than we
to the general overall goings on.

reflections mid march

wardrobes reflect mid march
call it spring or thereabouts,
warmer, light jackets, more people talking,
now taking life at a slower pace,

ease and joy is growing,
morning chill has lessoned.
while i off one way, M. to the store
wait. read. making notes as i go.

called to happy birthday
professor Roberto in Torino
with two more years than me
it’s fine he leads the way

zippin’ afoot on streets i am.
practiced maneuvers take me through;
it’s repeating my self to mention, but then
that comes with my lease, i’m old.

M. rode the tram. no Billie Store today,
got a new one, kinder gentler.
M. said the tram driver drove with anger
as if he’d just broken up with his mother.

couldn’t do it anyway,
can’t write these everyday
there’s got to be a secret cache,
i double checked - i’m not Ogden Nash.

airport security

M. when at airport security
the man asks her
“How many chicken legs do you have?”
she looks up worried,

“Chicken legs?”
he shakes his head.
took a breath, then he said,
“No, ma'am, check in bags!”

Rome is always like this

walked down for wine
like a Johnny cash song
went down the line
and the morning’s fine

for venders and buyers.
on getting food for the table
that’s the general idea of it.
warm in the sun, cool in the shade.
Roma e sempre cosi
that's how it's made, i guess.

at the market i salute my friends.
making ends meet they are, listen -
resolute in packs and calls
over pole and canvas market stalls

a crowd of tourists browse not buying,
instead take photos of vegetables
after a night a carousing streets and alleys
that link and form ancient Rome in new times

in the initial hint of spring this year of 2012
not going to delve meteorologically, just got up, i’m sleepy
so i’ll just go out and buy wine, out there where i said,
so i can get on my way back home again and see what happens

notes on to do

let's not call it poetry today
in my land of a stuff i write
this rich field is opened,
soil turned, dug up a bit

in the work area are partially realized
objects on the bench
moved around and dusted just enough
i can find most things when i need them

pieces for up future construction
some i know by partial-temporary names
and look for a glance to say "not yet"
others are forgotten and then rediscovered

mail arrives later,
one less thing to do for now
email anytime i care to look
it's a mystery - perhaps or perhaps not

too bad they don’t use horses
my granddad used to
wash them in the military
he wasn't a colonel

don’t know if grandfather had a brother
while some families
can track before 1600
only to uncover that the defect persists.

what did the Lord do the one day he rested?
did he have hobbies, wear shoes, have regular chores?
did God write poetry, or,
was fabricating the entire universe
enough creative expression to keep him occupied?

make a note: are we better than
bunnies, ducks and rabbits?
it’s good they invented eyeglasses
say, and when we’re done
are we really done?

center in the heart

the ghetto piazza
border to yesterday
with benches to sit
where there is sun

between not so high old buildings,
piazzas large enough to linger.
this fine spot to pause
during the rush of pre mid day

softly cosmopolitan this part,
forgiving in manner,
proud and stable,
a center in the heart of Rome.

song of the waters

song of the waters
quiet nearly, not quite,
there is a calming murmur,
thoughtless;
the sea in prayer
remembers with swirling soft motion.
how it moves
in seagulls and sun;
shining glimmers,
fish jumping.
the liquid heart of the earth;
the ever so. bloodline.

all rights reserved

M. today suggested
after observing yet another
very large ass jiggle by and by
and jiggling, on and on

there, she pointed,
these could earn cash;
perhaps with a sign
on the backside.

advertising everywhere
a billboard butt - all rights reserved.
money earned could be donated;
either that, or buy a lot of Snickers.

street tapping dancers

in sun and springtime here they come
the two dancing girls are heads up, reeling
sunday in the piazza, prancing in style
see ‘em strut to the old tunes.

made note of 'em last time so i know
was four days shy of four years ago.
they’re still in uniform, taps and hopping.
get back, they’re doing to what was once called swing.

their vintage music in a box - hear it ring.
got the action crowd pausing at the thing.
a small girl picked up their mic, then
they gently coaxed it back again.

the songs from the forties were jumping.
a drunk got up in line, danced along for a bit,
his few practiced moves were brief,
just a minute in the sun, in his groove, to our relief.

canes, bold black and white costumes, top hats,
click-click, tap-taping, roll on sunshine, click, click,
coins drop in the hat, amid appreciative smiles.
rat-a-tat-tat, oh, they left the crowd clapping.

no books

no books in piles around me anymore.
it’s electronic read things
manufacturing each other
while singing “robots are good cha cha cha”

i hear their chant in unison,
like the mechanical mice they practically are;
tapping feet to the beat.
enjoy their music? click, click, click.

people had to rest and eat,
even wanted money – hah!
the new system is up and running
serving the rich and whoever’s in.

so with technology improving
tell me when will i see
a little spilling over,
helping write my poetry?

first poetry written for a dolphin

hi, dolphin
sky is blue
water is too
how are you?

we call ourselves people
at least now we do,
that could change

please understand and forgive us
we are not as stable as you
and have a difficult time leaving
things as they are

and the world pristine
as it was in the beginning

the morning

with the commotion at night, the way
the moon and stars rock around
you’d think we would hear stretching sounds
or at least an echo

rising is the nature of the business
on the quick side of the clock
in first light, birds and critters, me and you
after a good sleep night, got ‘a go

the morning has its strength on then
straight up and at it, when, no horsing around
you can watch it go, my heavens.
time rolling into another new day rhythm

i love the sidewalks then
dashed with a streak
bright as butter yellow when
sneaking through the trees

Retro Rita Hayworth

on the jolly little bus again
for sure arrived via time machine
how else would heels like that get here
to pirouette uneven cobblestones?

as newbees eating ice cream in the rain,
hop aboard in place, in packs, presently isolated
hats on backwards face to face on the little traveler,
this gondola through the maze.

italian, german, inter european, extro mundo
from far north, far east and the americas.
hear them in groups like squirrels chattering,
flashing dreams and fears, some brave outspoken.

retro Rita has stockings
with a long line up the back of her leg.
phone out and twirling it, undecided
what is next to conquer in the ancient city today.

we finished dinner

the olives can go in the refrigerator
is what she said to me
can they now? that got my attention,
i looked at her

didn’t believe her, not then.
that was absolutely not true.
those olives can’t go anywhere,
watch them; even if they tried.

i know for a fact, no doubt about it.
take a load off, olives,
you can put the load right on me.
your going days are over.

Rome winter dark

heavy jackets abound, zip 'em
this grey day soaking mystery
hats on, umbrellas out and up
collars furry snug an' high

walkin' wrapped an' head down,
dampened sound, scarves tight around
through slush against wind chill we are
wading, by shops closed, traffic’s light

an’s only past noon by the clock
look ahead, more’s on the way
just you wait wait until tonight an' dark,
o'course we fear tomorrow’d be a similar day.


continued:
it snowed last night, a bit and cold.
many out walking taking photos
no snow falling now, enough we have
Rome is freezing, closed for the day.

in the key of life

i heard the marching band go down the street
the school’s a block over
i’m reading, thinking while upstairs a worker
finishes, hopefully, tile in the bathroom

some pictures, i see where i could hang a few
overall the old house is coming along
this the second year sharing life with contractors
give us a break, wrap it up, how much can we take?

not writing enough everyday has me off pace
though the year rolls warm and friendly
i note 67 creeping my back stairs
you can find out how old is some day

nights i dream of things to write
instead of getting up to make notes
i sleep thru and tell myself i’ll remember
you know, those distant trains hardly wake me anymore