Wednesday, February 18, 2015

3061




our phone number - four digits,
used to be three
when i was too young
to think about it

you could dial out of state
with help from the operator.
a little guy, Heinie Kensel,
was the village Morse code operator.

he rode a bicycle to work,
and repaired bikes at home on Adams Ave.,
in a part of town called Oklahoma;
probably cause it was out west of town.

Heinie worked at the train depot.
i'd been there, only for looking around.
a large beamed wooden building
as old as the railroad.

i'm sure someone told me
to get out of there.
it was no place for a kid.
as trains would whizz by.

don't know what messages
were sent and received by code.
could have been to send flowers.
i know it was long distance.

now, even today
the whole set up
remains a long,
long distance.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Antonio Salvatore 2


not absolutely, but maybe,
and that's very close.
poetry, like dialogue,
doesn't read as literature.

that was my disclaimer
prelude to say
of a thousand poems here
the most sought is

the one about my brief encounter
with renowned violinist Antonio Salvatore.
if we met again we
wouldn't know each other

it was a good day for both of us;
life has that happen occasionally;
ducks in a row
and pleasant times occur.


5 years ago we met on a bus,
chatted, end of story, basis for poem.
http://warmingtrend27.blogspot.it/2010/04/antonio-salvatore.html

Monday, December 29, 2014

winter's


some morning outing
when year turned near on end
look toward the sun;
it's softer on your face than plain air.
recall the warmer jacket
with the fluffy, full collar
that waits hung up for winter...
now so near you feel it ready to grab hold
and lay out...long and dark the shadows
so chill...you'll feel them in your bones;
those days breaths are sharp
and come in white puffs;
so many you ignore them.

Friday, December 12, 2014

Hollywood Ways - the book



My book is out.
Way out.
Somewhere out behind the old barn when I was a kid.
Our barn, the neighbors barn. We had barns all over. 
In the 1950's we got a new thing, television.
That box inspired and got me going.
My book is my story
A young man goes to Hollywood with a dream in the 70's;
up and down and up again...and gets along.

Hollywood Ways by Jack Sender - 4 bucks...Merry Christmas.

Monday, December 08, 2014

rest calmly, night


rest calmly night
 
no wind, yet the sea moves 
on slow long breathes in and out;
respiring a sweeping rush of shore pebbles.
folding waters cause an occasional boom on the shore.

the near full moon reflecting
white sparkles in the sea
throws scattered far reaching points of light,
in the nearly-still envelope of evening.
 
how you do it swell.
evening, you're a sweet song
i know you mean well,
i can tell by how you've done.
 




 

Friday, November 28, 2014

persistent stillness



persistent stillness
on Via Baullari.
some vehicles pass, and the electric bus
fewer than most days;
tourists also, and workers.
after nine in the morning
day has begun.

chairs out front Angelo's
ciao to Simone
there is an internal warmth, a kindness,
that radiates unseen and unacknowledged
to us, from Angelo and Simone
this is the understanding of our days.

a dark cappuccino and a cornetto with apple
weather is what you interpret as warmish
Thomas is off to draw near villa Borghese
fine pen and ink lines of buldings,
and we watch Murella up the street
who won't see us today,  our usefulness has diminished.

here is the German woman
at the next table, close enough to reach out and touch,
who never sees us, yet is internally aware.
she's the neighbor who brought the blanket and threw it over Leonardo
the day he was on fire outside my door, and i put out the flames with my hands,
and we've never spoken a word about it.

this is the street i am on today this 28th of November in 2014
dry between the rains, no wind
not cold, not warm.
on the cusp of whatever is coming next

Saturday, November 22, 2014

like waves



pages turn
then closing my eyes
goes easy rolling
after another, another
not rapid though smooth,
continuous. it's dream
on a train. scenes passing.  
heads down cows on green far hills.
constant movement in waves
then  coffee in an unfamiliar bar
somewhat dim and comfortably pleasant.
the worn, rolling wood, beautifully polished.
i turn at my desk at home, sun on my back
warm. i feel it. and remember the train.
calmly looking out the window
so apparent to me
how pleasant a nap can be

Monday, November 03, 2014

lamppost addendum



moving the words around,
choosing them carefully
to tell the true story
the way it always happened
            The draft for what has become The Old Lamppost was written forty years ago, it was one stanza in a much longer poem. Last week I pulled it out and began to develop  it.  (I save all my papers.)  I worked many hours and have several revisions,  I thought about putting them out  somewhere so other poets could see what went on to get the finished product.  When I read other poets I think I'd like to see their drafts to get an idea what they were doing when they worked things out.  . 
                        I was fortunate to hear David McCullough  last year give a talk to a small group at the American Academy in Rome,  and he gave a good lesson when he said,  "I'm not a writer, I am a re-writer." 

Sunday, November 02, 2014

the old lamppost



for many years at the curb
in front of our house on main street
there used to be a large, rusty-repainted,
decorative, cast-iron street lamp

that i clipped grass around during summer,
raked dry leaves around in the fall;
the pole was dark, the paint was dull,
the light from the lamp was dim;

and you know, now and then
on some quiet, still evenings
when the windows were open i'd hear
a car stop, then a bang, and someone swore
when they opened their door on the lamppost.

Friday, October 24, 2014

on the 492



on the 492 to piazza cavour
by tom's coke zero cafe
these streets again, oh my
we are acquainted

Thursday, October 23, 2014

kid pilot



kid pilot flew
small plane to a field
we ran for the bus
12 dollars a night
at the Belmoral

oh, lady, don't worry
you're on Belize time
no hurry
just watch out for
the fer-de-lance

Sunday, October 19, 2014

stick this in your poetry butt




october begins so well, the o  
cirical, i don't have to sell praise about that
and forget looking it up, shakespeare
who's going to invent words if we don't?

then oct is a bit icelandic/germanic don't you know
and iceland is green
and greenland is ice
sell that somewhere else
none of it's jamaica for cryin' out loud

another o is balance, that helps
it needs all it can get

good thing the month ends with a pagan holiday
and don't tell me origins are otherwise
dark, chill, windy, foreboding  skies are for
nonbelievers, non confidants, malcontents
and things that bump in the night

so have a happy holiday
salute yourself
don't stick yourself
though you may, it's a possibility

good thing it ends with ber
cause it's on the way;
and you can go to iceland with the rest of them

good thing no one asked me to name a month
for the result could have been bad for everyone

Thursday, September 11, 2014

i could



I could rush-fire another poem; well, not exactly.   The truth is I can't.  I have to take my time.  There are the pile of  notes that I carry around and add to every day; but where to start?   Which is the poem fragment to work with, the one from the heart? 

When I see a good note i made, because I check them every day, when I see a good note I develop it in to a poem, sometimes.  I'll have to put some of my poems in a book so I can flip the pages and find them; now, Online it is hard to wade through the archives. 

tobacco calms me.
it's like a good deodorant,
gives me confidence.
hell, pilgrim, why i bet i could almost ride a horse . . .
half fast, anyway.

Monday, September 08, 2014

harvest moon



face in the sky
round as a pie
another tune
it's harvest moon

october's soon
just was june
say ta summer sky
a sweet good bye

sky light
sleep tight
and rocka me, baby
let's spoon, tonight

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Dear people of the future



dear people of the future
it’s me again, how’s it going?
say, do you have chips implanted
and take it for granted?
just wondered, hey.

i bet they keep track of you pretty well
that’s swell, i guess.

we have places to walk
with no one around
and hardly a sound, do you?

with no where special to go
until it’s time to go home
time alone, called a day off,
really way off, no kidding

so who’s in charge?
Are you raising sons to fight in wars?
do you still get drunk?
and are there whores?
do you drive any better
if there are cars?
and when you're out at night
can you see the stars?

oh, and if you would
put the answers under  hood
in my dreams
however you do, know what i mean?

for you maybe it's easy,
ill wait and see
oh, and best wishes to all of you
from all of me

Saturday, July 19, 2014

peasley poor farm



where we pick berries,
the man said he went out
at last light,  a large bush
was nearly ready to pick.

the next morning he went out
the bush was empty;
three deer were asleep
in the grass under it.

Friday, July 18, 2014

dawning



woke up slow
got clean, ready for the day.
from the window
caught the first glint of sun

cracking over the horizon.
suddenly i froze;
an idea was coming to mind.
coffee . . .  thought of that too.

i'd make some and sip,
think a bit what to do.
going to make this day
worthwhile.

Monday, June 30, 2014

no easy learning way

there's no easy learning way;
yet be firm and sure.
keep alert each day,
as you teach your child.

work with the goal in mind
so all ends well,
and when time comes for you to go
peace and love you'll leave behind.

Friday, May 30, 2014

may well



final weekday in may
is what we wake to
this today is here
in the year 2014

books on the table
new text to edit
pages to fill
be able; climb the hill

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

delta 245




489 mph
57 mph head wind
38 thousand feet elevation
ground speed 690

do whales and dolphin
look up and see us go by?

tail number n809nw
minus 57 f outside temperature
longitude 69 degrees 14' 47" west
latitude 41 degrees 15' 24 " north

notice -
the plastic fork and knife on the flight from rome;
exceptional, redolent of elegance
i will bring one of each home with me

the man working as attendant on the plane
wears a light blue short sleeve shirt,
has arms better than superman
and an incongruous, soft soothing voice
that is surprising;
i know he could shred a motorcycle
with his fingers.

6,515 miles from rome
38 minutes to go
244 miles to destination
the down slope

what have these passengers
in their hearts,
their minds, their memories;   
and ambitions

"have a great day here in new york,
or wherever . . . your
final destination may be."
maybe we all will do our best.