goes like waves

goes like waves
after another, another
not rapid though
smooth, continuous
its dream, i’m on a train,
scenes passing. sheep and cows.
there is the movement of the waves
then a coffee in an unfamiliar bar
somewhat dark,dim and comfortably cool.
the bar old, oiled beautiful polished wood.
i turn at a desk at home, the sun on my back
warm. i feel it.
looking out the window it's apparent
how pleasant sleep can be

The Ocean Trip

the ocean trip can get unruly rough
then you can’t pull off the road
to wait for conditions better
slowly you keep going knowing

weather changes, all will calm
for surely the sun
will come out bright again
some soon other day

life is a moving train

life is a moving train
sometime fast, sometime on the upgrade.
was talking to the conductor afore i dozed off;
he’s been on the job a hundre . . . a long time.

glanced at my ticket and nodded.
was going to ask him when to get off,
right then he was looking at the view out the window,
seemed content. wasn't necessarey to bother him.

a lot of people riding.
saw a cat and a dog and a bird in a cage.
big train. kept moving.
i was happy to be onboard

taking it easy, writing at little, reading a little.
i’d check the time but don’t have a watch.
decided wasn’t important the hour. been a few.
just doing the best i can.

like new-new shoes

for six agonizing months
my new shoes often came untied
no matter how i tied them
finally took laces from old shoes i wear

changed longer new laces for the old with care
all fit in their new shoe lace places
my new shows are now staying tied
the faithful old shoes, however, i haven’t tried

life is a car

how shiny cute in the showroom.
take it home and keep it clean.
friends comment when they see it.
keep it tuned, fluids up, taunt, looking good.

protected from bad weather, inspected,
for years return several times for checkups.
always be aware to avoid accidents.
though over time scratches and dings happen.

then when at last it is worn, aged, paint becomes dull,
more difficult or impossible to repair; it’s seen its day.
taken to a new home, or left unused, nearly forgotten.
that’s car life; leaving you with photos and memories.

so the marathon

so the marathon
number 18 in Rome. not my number.
didn’t run but walked instead
to see the start

under blue skies and helicopters.
we were on the small hill near piazza Venezia
they ran right by us, twenty thousand of ‘em
no, i didn’t count, someone else said.

one runner was shocked to hear
voices in the crowd shout “die” as
he ran by the coliseum.
he thought they didn’t like Americans,

but these were Italians
they yelled not die, but dai,
equivalent to “go for it”
or “give it all you’ve got.”

sleeping or so then

sleeping or so then
sometime before three
caught myself dream weaving in and out
turnip trucks turn up as i meander

fast lanes, grocery lines, three apples
talking someone pleasant, bagger boy.
rolling in the sheet, passing hour,
then two more, still night

re-fluff the pillow ’nother time, now it’s right.
around four, passing minutes in fifteens
as i look now and then at the clock,
no stopping, it’s spinning on

then at five alive to morning
a lot of words and thought rush thinking,
am putting exactly this together
without note, nor music or computer

this stuff written down
on the backroad of my mind
takes jog maneuver, a bob and weave.
time for oat meal hot enough

brain sipping what i was dreaming of
recalling best i can, what’s fit to recall
writing , mostly awake now
yawning good day y’all to all, finally.

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.