2010 - the end

to mom and dad,
uncles and aunts
neighbors Phil and Rosey,
the kids i grew up with,

the women i've loved,
to my kids and theirs.
stack ‘em up,
all the way down.

to creeks jumped
and those fallen into.
bridges crossed,
those ducked under.

to all frogs and the fish,
the birds and the clouds,
rain in the forest,
over brambles, through fields,

and down long highways.
in sun, snow and heavy sea,
flowers, weeds and vegatebles - this is it:
a salute to the finish

of the first decade,
in this twenty-first Century.
for bygones well done,
the best to you from me.

postcard from Rome

postcard from Rome
also to Rome
if like say you live here and I’m
sending this to you. but don’t kid yourself.

i am sandwiched like peanut butter and whatever,
between languages and cultures,
an example of contradiction and/or combination,
that, more or less, function, even thrive

or seem to, in this chaotic basket of the active world.
not an angle, not a corner.
a catch-trapping thing,
like a basket.

a walk over the bridge Ponte Sisto before noon.
where one can see the Vatican.
or two can see the same thing.
ponte means bridge, none the less.

less is more? by the way,
whoever said that should go back to school.
perform penance by subtraction, and quit
making up esoteric sayings like that.

when i cross (the bridge again)
the Japanese accordion guy will be on the bridge.
i will drop un euro into his case,
then go straight ahead toward Fontana Trilusa

then on into Trastevere and lunch.
Chinese food with our friend Maria.
it’s our usual Sunday in Rome, or call it Roma
if you’re Italian or if like say you live here.

you know, they call this city Roma,
and the Roma are the people from Romania,
who are also called the Gypsies,
but are on the wrap-around periphery of this poem.

and did I ever tell you
the Chinese lady who runs the restaurant
is also called Maria, and she picked that name herself
because her Chinese name is unpronounceable for Italians.

oh, i never say an euro, it’s always un euro.
cause i’m not speaking English
when i’m talking euro. hai capito?
who can blame me?

well there you have it, now mark the bridge
with an X on the picture postcard,
and write – “we are here”
that pretty much tells the story and should do just fine.

hot ride

a can full of fish, this bus
all gray; water and oil nearly dripping off the walls.
sealed tight, standing,
packed for shipping, we are.

temperature rising, heater on.
not a window open.
must be sales on perfumes, colognes and smelly food,
or they’re rubbing it on people as they board.

jerky stops,
jerky starts
hold on tight,
it’s good training for pole dancers.

everyone on cell phones
talk it up, talk it down.
welcome aboard,
we’re going to town.

we svelte

she claims it is a sign of getting old
when i mornings move myself mumbling
whether to wear a belt or suspenders.

yet, i never have to back up
at the check out counter
to reach into my front pants pockets.

it is a known fact of material mechanics,
pants often stretch
from repeated washings.

spiritly jaunting across the street,
my trousers sag,
legs flapping in the wind.

obviously, persons of girth
never have to suffer
what we svelte must endure.

like old times

pizza, a slice for me, a short walk away,
just across the bridge; then looking,
almost shopping with M.
this is the holiday spirit, about that.

she went on, while back i went
for a white plastic plate and fork,
and steamy hot carbonara, 2.40 euro and tasty.
with the workers and locals in line, got mine ,

ate on the street outside,
propped up on a road thing,
that stuck up there as an indicator
and good like-for to lean on.

for every season
there is a reason
turn, turn, turn
onwards and upwards.

sixteen chimneys

sixteen chimneys
close together
like the wet slippery street cobblestones
close together on one small roof top

maybe there were more
lost count
street stones, gaps, spaces, irregular
wet and slippery.

thinning out for the holidays, traffic
light, so they go faster
amid patter of many feet
and the mutter of motorinos.

at Pasquali’s ordered pasta gregia – grey
eating it when
M. said it was
pomodori and zucchini

i had enough red pepperincino, hot peppers, on it
hadn’t noticed it was not grey
cause while i ate
i was still thinking about chimneys.

papery thin

papery thin
that’s my skin,
physically, metaphorically
and that’s okay, it’s a fine day,

and i’m used to my skin,
been around with it a while.
just today we had coffee together,
even wear the same shoe size.

now watching sun pouring in.
first light, my favorite.
dawn’s early,
as it should be.

got me thinking, as the sky
blue poco loco shines from above
in this doggie dog world. i don’t know why.
must be the heat, or the lack thereof.

so, what’s new?
how’s you been in your skin?
staying well? getting enough rest?
do your best. i’m pullin’ for you.

savor the moments,
laminate these layers of time in your head.
and don’t worry when you go to bed, you can’t know
what to expect, ‘cept it keeps getting better.

thunder and snow

a week before Christmas,
in cold enough Rome,
clack rattling hail and rolling boom thunder
shakes walls and smacks windows at home.

looking out, blurry blue snowgusts and
patches of ice, show by street lamp light,
now in dark, and still wind,
hard rain falls tonight.

the unmarked bus

what is it? no number.
here comes chance.
an opportunity?
boarded it, to where it was going.

found a seat easily
because two uniformed
ticket checkers were aboard.
somehow arrived at the termini.

on the street a lad was selling colorful plastic,
blobs to throw on the sidewalk, where
it splatters like an egg. then, as if a sci-fi movie
it immediately forms into a ball.

talked to friends Rocco and Stefano
at the pizza box, then to Nicola, Cecelia,
Teressa and Corine at Sfizio, meaning whim,
where i enjoyed red yolk eggs for breakfast.

M. joined me for coffee, we walked to Piazza Vittorrio
and to Mas, which means more in Spanish.
four floors of store like a maze.
the basement alone winds on forever,

with at least twelve rooms
and connecting, elongated,
narrow, irregular levels
of corridor.

tried on pants in a dressing room
where behind a curtain the entire contents
of that room was one wooden knob,
mounted head high on the wall. no seat.

and then caught an old tram that ran on tracks,
circled Piazza Maggiore the magnificent, huge
stone Roman gate where centuries ago
you entered to get into the city.

switched to a bus,
got off near home.
it was one o’clock.
time for lunch.

route change

a.

on to Pasqual’s for polenta,
something not on M.’s diet.
I ate knowing,
but she abstained.

i mentioned it Wednesday,
said i’d go Friday,
she said polenta is Thursday.
how’d she remember? i ate. it was good.

b.

opposite the restaurant is the building
where Samuel Morris lived around 1831,
eleven months. long enough to earn a
marble plaque on the exterior wall

that plaque says he invented
the electric telegraph magnetic writer.
which means, with different words,
about the same thing in English,

c.
then boarded the small electric bus
and rode into a student demonstration
with traffic stammering, then blocked.
we gyrated around as best we could, the driver did.

having just eaten and
had a few glasses of wine to boot,
the days was right to ride around
in that little electric charm.

there were four other passengers.
to help talk away the ride.
while the bus made a circuitous route
to get around blocked traffic.

warm and sunny,
he drove us well.
no one minded the
improvised route.

in the end he got us
nearly where we
all were going
in the first place, anyhow.

note

the unfortunate part
of not making note
is forgetting what it was
that i never wrote

we have to love it

first it kicks me,
i nearly fall,
then with all nearly lost
it loves me.

office of immigration
twenty years of doing it legal.
now take metro and then bus
to fight the crowd.

of twenty-one service windows,
four are open.
several times we go there
to be treated like dirt.

at home, alberto’s gallery
is right around the corner.
then, Campo Dei Fiori
just another minute away.

see old friends
and meet new,
early evening,
a pause to chat.

a movie tomorrow,
minute walk, no more.
got wine at the shop
on the way home.

it is the city
outside our door.
when it loves us
we have to love it back.

we were put here

we were put here
born, planted, however,
to do things over and over
until we get life right.

so we may as well
get on with it.
it’s our nature to struggle,
not to cause trouble.

be kind, do well, .
stack up good deeds,
move on the side of the light.
it’s quite a ride, hang on tight.

gray dawn

gray dawn and hard to
get up cold mornings, no kidding.
zero centigrade, freezing like 32 F.
spells Rome winter.

have to get going now,
Alberto’s art show
at eleven. Sunday morning? something new.
friends to greet. nice time.

home for lunch and a while,
then bus 87 to Colle Albani,
that’s way out a ways, way.
directly we climbed into a pasticciera.

that means pastry place. write that down.
it’s a good word to learn. tasty.
stick around, no kidding.
i’ll help you squeak by.

plastic bag heaven

plastic bag heaven is being relocated,
it’ll have to move, no doubt.
“there is no going back”
said the Italian minster of the environment.

in January, Italy will be done with them.
not ministers,
only the bags this time.
a giant leap for mankind.

why just the other day
i threw out many bags and wondered,
a thought too large to form,
an idea whose time has come

or will soon, Merry Christmas
and then goodbye bags,
i mean it, at least someone does,
that’s for sure,

it’s the law.
will our world be the same?
what shall we do?
oh my, what'll we put stuff in?

outside in the rain

outside in the rain this morning.
walked over, enjoyed it.
thirty minutes early at the appointed place,
the witches bar, la strega.

closed, but known to locals
as if it were still there.
not waiting for James today,
it is Giacomo, his dad.

called him at nine thirty-three
to say i am American and he’s 3 minutes late.
he understood the humor. everyone waits for
Giacomo and we Americans live by the clock.

he arrived and drove off in heavy traffic
and rain. oh yes, i was riding with him.
i rode behind him. a refrigerator was in front
and in back with me also.

heading for the mountains
on the high road we saw
layers of solid fog
between the mountain peaks.

we got to the quacky little town
if you ask what that means,
let me call it a charming, quaint
very old stone village teaming

with only the sort of mountain villagers
you’d imagine could live remotely.
not bad quacky, good quacky,
all the way up, all the way down and sideways.

on our way back to Rome
we passed a flock of sheep on our left,
Giacomo surreptitiously waved to them.
i noticed this tiny gesture and commented.

he explained if you see
sheep on your left side
it brings you money.
although that did not explain to me his waving at them.

giving thanks

the pilgrim’s Mayflower didn’t pass this way,
not Rome, Italy. an email from M. told me
she’s off to my brother’s for a family dinner.
that’s how i found out it is today.

went out this morning to bus away,
to the large strange market Esquilino.
first though, i wandered a bit, then decided
i already had enough vegetables for soup.

took coffee at one of the remaining old bars,
for old times sake, in celebration of the day.
this bar remains leftover from the Nineteenth Century,
while most places change, for the sake of change.

i passed into the piazza of Chiesa Nuova.
paused in a steam of golden sun, to think, to rest.
a familiar beggar quickly glanced, quietly went by.
evidently he remembered this time, i am a local.

then Campo dei Fiori. faces i know.
jokes, calls and small talk abound.
sat on the ledge at the base of the stature of Bruno
in the warm hold of morning sun glow.

Prospero, the veteran salesman, as of late
it's a plastic tool that cuts veggies into squiggles,
who says a few words of banter in many languages,
has a man working for him now. to sell to tourists.

Prospero came over to where i sat,
we’ve spoken many times. said he remembered,
waving, pointing, when i painted in the market everyday.
there and there. memories of the ebbing last century.

we talked of the old and current changing times,
of those come and gone, of this market now for tourists.
he is older and played these streets as a ragamuffin.
i'v known these waves of change a meager twenty years.

much of the old has been discarded, renewed modern.
he recalled the beauty of the faded unpainted stone exteriors.
i told him our building’s 400 year old worn smooth marble steps
have been replaced by sharp edged cheaper new ones.

then nearly home i saw my friend Franco, wood worker.
23 years in his unchanged ancient shop on our lane,
where more than four hundred years ago
it was named for the hat makers, via dei Cappellarri.

in these hard times Franco’s landlord has tripled the rent.
Franco is saddened to be leaving to an area farther out.
i will miss him and the picturesque shop that is sure to change,
a left over. as fewer and fewer of the old shops remain.

again another beggar passed, going the opposite way.
with sad face he called back to me, “Ho Fame.”
readers, that means i am hungry. what do you say?
and this morning i learned Thanksgiving's this day.

surely not only the poet has heart,
and feelings run deep as large fish in great rivers.
whether warm or icy, under clouds of rain or sunny skies,
we must accept life as it is given, and should give thanks in return.

another rainy day

another rainy day.
the only people on the street
were selling umbrellas.
need a back up? or bigger?

from the corner where i stood
i could see seven or eight umbie salesmen.
like mushrooms in the spring
they pop out when it rains

there were no other customers seated,
one or two for order and go,
came and went.
i like a quiet breakfast.

a man came in then,
set a suitcase down,
right in the middle of the floor
and then left.

didn’t hear what he said.
i knew the case wasn’t heavy
so i doubted it was a nuclear explosive,
but thought about it as i ate.

my eggs were already scrambled sufficiently,
so was i. then the man came back to eat,
then i drank my coffee,
then bid Roberto a good day when i left.

a dead fish

a fish died in our pond today
the first to go in eight years or so
not a floater, lying on the bottom
on his side, all alone

i scooped him out
laid him in the garden
and said words of goodbye,
he was white, formerly orange

i call it him
instead of it or she
don’t know why
surely doesn’t matter

the next day he was gone
don’t think he resurrected
something recycled him for dinner
so some good came out of it




I happened on this in the archives. It was from a year ago. Now it's out again, for you.

went to the dentist

went to the dentist,
haven’t seen this one in five years
so i missed my bus stop.
had to walk back up the steep hill.

a delivery truck was there.
a man carried on his shoulder
a huge refrigerated something that
looked like a cold white leg of elephant .

at a small outside market
got two bananas, 6 tangerines,
a pound mixed vegetables for soup.
very low cost, it's out of the center.

on the upper street i asked directions.
the dentist was two steps further.
took the small elevator to the third floor,
couldn’t get out.

doors opened to a flat wall.
i read all the signs twice,
then found the other door
on the rear wall of the elevator.

at the only door the nice lady said
the dentist was one floor down.
i apologized to her.
although the sign outside said it was this floor.

in the dental waiting room a newspaper headline
said China invades the USA.
also front page story, the Harry Potter film
was blood and sex.

saw the dentist and remembered
why my last visit to him was five years ago.
i didn’t like him.
he gave me an estimate for 1,345 euros work.

the receptionist made three appointments.
first one way later this afternoon.
in less than an hour i was home.
called and cancelled my dental appointments.

half a bag of butterflies

half a bag of butterflies,
that’s what i made
with green sauce
store bought.

i swear i didn’t
put it in my cart
it sort of floated there like butterflies do.
oh, i just tattered my poetic license.

for you rookie cookers, it's easy,
it's written on the bag.
all i had to do was count to twelve.
minutes, that is. presto.

now, pesto – that’s the sauce
i knew it would come to me.
like, when i saw it in the store
and it seemed a good idea.

ate half a bag
cause that’s what i cooked.
thought to save some for later.
saved the dishes to clean up instead.

here’s how it happened.
first i ate a third,
thought that might be enough.
then had seconds.

now there was only a third left,
hardly enough to heat up later,
and i didn’t plan eat a snack between meals,
so i downed it at onecet.

Oncet is an old Southern U.S. expression that I heard many times from a lady when I was growing up. Can't spell it, can't find it in the dictionary or google. Then again, perhaps also related, my dad used to say chimley.

at San Silvestro

it was noon when
i stepped off the busy street
into the quiet courtyard
at the church of San Silvestro.

didn’t go in to see john the Baptist’s head again.
there are a few in Rome,
john’s head, that is.
i’ve seen a couple.

here the courtyard brick walls are adorned with
fragment marble pieces bearing inscriptions, some
carved graffiti, from posted public notices and grave
markers a few hundred,to more than a two thousand years ago.

blocked from wind by tall yellowed travertine walls,
in a streaming beam of sun i sat outside,
on an old, smooth worn white marble bench,
to tie my shoe and consider.

i didn’t plan on considering.
my intention to be there
was to tie my shoe.
but since i was here anyway . . .
.
it’s a fine old courtyard
if it were in my back yard
i’d be able to do nothing for a while and observe,
but that is difficult here

when i had a single purpose
for my pause in this place
and really should
be moving along.

it’s another spot where tourists
and the prayerful pass.
most without inclination to sit and consider.
even those who come to go inside to pray

have other things on their minds.
but i, with no intention for being there,
other than to tie my shoe,
took the moment to soak in beauty.

and that reminds me of something ,
this morning when i awaoke it occurred to me
how everyone is living their life
as fast as they can.

to Esquilino - the huge farmers market

on the 70 near Santa Maria Maggiore
the large dark church on a hill in the city,
saw a young man in his twenties
dressed in two shiny dark grey trash bags,

seated back against the wall with stocking cap
and full beard, a faraway look in this eye.
a large decorated cardboard box in front of him,
presumably for you to throw money into.

the bus stopped close to the market.
i know the routine,
we'd done it many times.
gotta eat, today i go it alone.

first a coffee and a warm sweet roll for one fifty.
told the guy the coffee was good, i noticed.
smiling he said, he new it was good, cause he made it.
that’s what my Polish grandmother used to say, didn't tell him.

85 cents for three bananas,
gave 90 with the thought he can keep the change.
five and penny coins are ridiculously small and annoying.
he interrupted my thought to give me back twenty cents

don't think twice
it's all right,
Bob Dylan got that
the way it is.

got a huge, solid red work-of-art of a pepper - 47 cents.
a small pizza with red sauce to take home for an euro.
had breakfast, bacon two eggs, a hot roll,
coffee and orange juice for 5 euro.

said good byes and started off.
a woman on the bus
wore a tribal head wrap,
and an intriging red patterned dress. mysterious.

all in a days venture
into the dark heart of the city,
for a big trip to the famers market.
started raining, and hard, a minute after i got home.

Sunday thin clouds

Sunday thin clouds,
seventy degrees,
air is still.
is it really mid November?

as is our Sunday custom, i walk to Trastevere.
on the ancient stone bridge over
i give a euro
to the accordion player from Japan.

soon i am seated at the back table,
under the awning,
opposite the church Santa Maria,
beyond the fountain in the center of the piazza.

first coffee and then a spremuta,
that’s fresh squeezed orange juice,
on this day quiet, yet alive with hushed chatter.
Luciana arrives with an amica from Firenze,

then my friend Maria shows up.
later she and i go to the Chinese restaurant
to partake in our Sunday usual.
the owner at the restaurant asks.

everyone had asked where is M.
yes, even the accordion player on the bridge.
two weeks, i tell them. i’m the advance man,
she’s fall cleanup raker.

walking back with my supper,
leftover lunch in a bag, i marvel at the beauty
as the last rays of today’s sun spill gleaming,
this Roman golden and so very still mid-November.

here now

here now, this is Roma, this time.
the Buddha said -
all life is suffering.
maybe he had been here.

from a downtown bus i saw
a disheveled old lady on the sidewalk
seated legs out, smoking, drinking a beer,
talking and no one listening.

passed an old coffee bar,
where we had many coffees.
transformed, now it’s called Bali Way,
selling the true meaning of tourist junk.

the two old ladies in their eighties
who lived twenty years with shopping carts
outside, on the corner, by the train station,
are gone with no trace.

a decade ago taxis numbered four thousand,
now there are eight thousand.
is this why there are so few buses?
i walked, not for health, merely to get me there.

stopped where a friend
will open an art show in January
the owner gave me a ficus leaf.
said it is for luck.

the weather in Roma is like Ohio
much of the time.
then, there are other things
that are different.

i could cry.

i don't know these fish

though i see them everyday.
we’ve nothing to say
i don’t know these fish.
not personally.

the sight of them brings me joy.
enough to smile a hi.
to expect reply,
is not my wish.

they’re in my pond
where they were born.
here they live in relative safety.
for a fish, that’s living - big time.

this morning it was above freezing, barely.
they were drift floating
in sun- lit clear water,
low, by the stems of the water lilies,
taking the appearance of
orange and white ornaments
on the tranquil filaments
of an underwater holiday tree

no motion.
i don’t blame them.
a living still life
with nowhere to go.
a happy day for them?
would they know?

winter is a month away,
when it will be frozen Ohio cold.
yes, the fish will be fine.
it’s nice of you to ask.
and when water warms
they’ll wake to swim again.
i’ll see them in the spring.

Kindled Spirit

so long used book sale at the library
you won’t have me to kick around,
for i’ve a Kindle. i think that’s how they spell it,
i’ll check and let you know.

ok, so, now i’m all out head down walking,
cause i’m reading.
going along without wires
like the circus aerial performer without a net,

only it’s not glide-walking overhead,
it’s normal reading.
all right then, not exactly like the circus.
so never mind,

except it’s great.
now, step aside,
i’ve a Kindle,
and that is how to spell it, exactly.

so long now, I’ve got to sink into it.
oh, by the way, M. got it for me.
it was very nice of her
to belly flop me into the 21st Century.

i'd rather write of specifics

i’d rather write of specifics,
where i’ve been, what i’ve seen,
like places on Blue Mountain
where walking’s so serene.

have i ever mentioned Crystal Spring
where rushed the clearest water ever?
the cleanest taste, the greatest feel,
it made my ankles cold to play in.

my thoughts must hold for minutes there,
for every where’s distraction,
calling me, calling me
for just an hour’s action.

fix my shingle screams the one,
then i think i’ll fall over, sites another,
i’m sure i’m a good idea, calls a third
and you’d better plan for me, recites one more.

take a note: i’m sure i like four lines best,
they tuck neatly in the nest.
to right a line until it's tight, and then another.
sister sight, sister smell, and sound the brother.

to me alligators

to me alligators don’t slither
they bask, in sun sleepy tired.
i’ve seen that in round moats at the zoo.
them, being admired.

Frost

i figured something out, a little, i did.
my blog comments are out of order,
i think i didn’t reset something from Rome time.
don’t know what, or how to correct this.

so Annie’s second comment on that post
way back, that mentioned Tom, got ahead of mine.
either i’m slow, or she’s swift and nibble.
maybe both.

you got’a watch these little people.
and never trust a librarian anyway.
Oh, Annie, i was teasing you.
you know that, don’t you?

okay, now a story to tell.
i have a college professor friend, Rob Smith, who won
the Robert Frost poetry contest three years ago.
wait, i just remembered something . . .

Howdy Dowdy, the TV puppet –
his best friend was Buffalo Bob Smith,
no relation i suppose. anyway,
i’m sitting on a frost-like poem.

a poem more like Robert Frost than Robert Frost,
so if his mother read it she’d yell,
“Robert get home, supper’s on the table getting cold,
and wipe your feet a’fore you come in.”

well, this year, fifty years after i wrote it
i submitted my poem to the Frost Foundation contest.
unfortunately, there are no letters after my name.
so scratch me up simply as s.o.l.

now, the following is the poem.
it wasn't acknowledged in the contest,
but for me it’s a winner.
printed here for the first and maybe the last time.

Geeze, i wait a life time
and now here it is:

Knowledge: is what i call it


Since man’s meager time on earth
A period quite concise
We’ve sought to find our collective worth
And never are precise.

It seems that none who’ve suffered birth
Have been able to entice
Knowledge to enter at full girth
Or, to take one’s own advice.

the sugar maple

the sugar maple
in lemon lime,
will change to gold,
pointing up leaf toes

to float away, away.
scattering and running,
skidding brittle rattles
on brisk wind in sun.

the season’s begun
an extravagant show all,
yielding full colors.
the wonder of fall.

plunder seekers

it was Squirrely Girl
eating nuts fast as she can.
packing on a little weight,
getting ready for winter.

reminds me of the way
my wife goes through
the sales table at the clothing store.
head down, no looking 'round, all business.

we give her peanuts now,
the squirrel i’m talking about,
she has a long winter ahead.
then, so do we all.

at least M. & i don’t live outside
with no soft blankies,
riding out blowing snow storms
somewhere high up in a tree.

crosses on the side of the road

crosses on
the side of the road
mark the spot
where someone died.

as old as earth is,
if there was a cross
everywhere a death occurred
the world would be
packed with sticks.

you could hardly
walk or drive anywhere.
it’d be tough to get from
here to the bathroom.

so how are you
supposed to
have a nice day
?

you are the winner

the biggest award i can imagine
is about sixteen feet long
shaped like and made entirely of ground hot dogs
you could put wheels on it

and roll it into a bonfire
and eat it with mustard
or wrap it up, stand on top, wave to all
and call it “have a nice day”

using Palin

they’re using Palin
to jump-start the GOP.
she’ll do whatever, for
cash, check or money order.

with new faces upcoming, the GOP
doesn’t want to be left on the outside,
the good old boys want business as usual,
cash check or money order.

money is the game & money breeds power.
jeeze i write this stuff and
it gives me the willies - i’d prefer
cash, check or money order.

old stuff

some of my old stuff is special,
that’s why i keep it, plus -
i may need it someday.
that’s a possibility.

for sure, once i liked the objects,
enough to pile them around, pack ‘em in,
mixed with decoy common items.
that way my good stuff doesn’t stick out
and look obviously valuable.

it waits huddled in drawers.
including bells, knobs, hinges,
screws, levers, nuts and springs,
buttons, rope and wires,
wall hooks, unidentifiable gizmos and rulers,

in boxes, wooden, or cardboard.
on shelves, or piled in dark corners.
there’s chipped obsidian arrow heads,
beach shells, stones, bits of bones.
admittedly, some objects better than others,
all have been around the block.

souvenir pottery from Mexico,
old brushes that will be okay
if and when i clean ‘em some day.
worn shoes i may never wear again.
maps to locations i once thought to visit,
books, pamphlets from places no longer in business,
an old cowboy hat once treasured,
though i doubt i’ll ever have a horse
or be that young again.

yesterday i came upon two wooden coins,
one good for a beer at a bar burned down years ago.
on the other wooden coin is printed "one vote",
i know nothing more about it.
they are coins of equal non value.

the line between the good
and junky miscellaneous is fine,
a delicate distinction of subtle reason.

some objects that i hold
i’ll decide the fate of
some other season.

most things squirreled away,
though unimportant now,
evidently, upon a time,
once, had significance.

someday

someday entertainment
will be a lifetime,
a multidimensional movie.
viewed from beginning to end,

the whole, walk-in, big screen enchilada.
from birth, through baby time,
holidays, family, school, playing,
growing up, dating, marriage.

family again, see 'em grow,
middle age rush,
old age creeping in,
and then the final curtain.

take it with a soft drink
and box of popcorn.
chew slowly,
digest a lifetime.

cell phone dilemma

major red alert,
cell phone is missing -
the pulse of my life line.
gone but not forgotten.

went back where i had coffee.
questioned everyone repeatedly.
most seemed honest in their replies.
evidently i didn’t leave my phone there.

staggered home dejected.
instead of crying right away,
dumped big trash can in the drive.
two cops driving by stopped to watch.

i put it all back,
took a half hour,
searching the sticky mess
a piece at a time.

then brilliant idea
struck like lightening. wow.
i asked the cops to call my cell number
and put it on speakers in their car.

if the rat face sleaze at the coffee place answers
i’ll recognize his wheezy voice.
from the squad car they let me dial,
misdialed my cell number several times.

chatted with interesting people,
talked longer with the nice ones
a few wrong numbers were angry,
cops were growing impatient.

i suggested, “Lend me a dollar, i’ll call
for a medium pizza, split it three ways,
if you drive us to pick it up.”
cops were unhappy.

head down, i kept dialing.
finally got the right number.
two seconds later
my pocket rang.

one branch

one branch, some leaves
still green, connected
one trunk, some roots
unseen, inspected
by me, one day
still young, and aching
for answers, to questions
one moment, then nothing

why is there symmetry?
my eyes make it so
why is there hurry?
with no where to go
why not be nameless?
can there be formless?
sand grains all different
no snowflakes repeat
rain drops the same
each circle complete

in wood times - reprise

in wood times i've spent walking
gathering colors, tasting sounds
by ferns, tall grass, and animals
under the forest canopy, making rounds

flushing pheasants as i go
they streak off in a line
then to stop, a place i know
amid green berries on the vine

wild white rolling clouds above
reflect the light, contrast the blue
in nature's time i touch the love
and symmetry by which things grew

the wind plays light and sweet
with mint and closer scents
honeysuckle and wildflower complete
the multicolored firmament

at a small creek bank i pause to drink
and there, witness life within
a small plant reaches water's brink
the shoots are young and thin

where hours pass i cannot say
the sun marks shadows on the land
little voices beg me to stay
i promise trees, i'll come again

reprise

the writer's life, both of them

the little woman is telling me
a writer’s life’s too narrow
sighted only on what he can see
i see it like a winged sparrow

while the powerful princess whacks away
i’ve got to write my own, you see
let’s lift our hats to the writers work
without the Mcmurtrys where would we be

the saga ends all to soon
give me the great stories and actors to play
winter’s gone, it’s nearly June
be content writers know what to say

the words fly on like a wounded sparrow
as thought lines soar, rush and dart
nearly downed by the random arrow
coming to rest, so near the heart

i’ll labor on long as i am able
the ship goes down while runs the rat
i hear her say, “supper’s on the table”
now tell me, how’d she do that?


Tuesday, April 08, 2008

just riding

M. driving, just riding i am.
only an hour.
feet up, back seat down time.

rain barks the glass. wipers beating,
sweeping water like sawdust chunks
and it takes me away,

under a dark arch of rain.
to the right a lonely fragment of blue sky.
behind us now. bye bye.

rolled into a service station. found:
a packed full, third- world construction zone,
where at the pumps the customer does the service.

major concrete cutting- saw noise
and white cement-dust clouds
blanket everyone and the dozen cars gassing up.

take me out,
lay me face up
toward the stars at night.

no wonder why i daydream
po box Wyoming, big sky country,
instead of living the reality.

to escape within the city.
tumbling along,
a little pretty, a little gritty.

it’s the kinda day makes me wanna
put my pen and notebook down,
buy a TV, fall into it, frown,

then close my eyes.
and hum my head off an on, in tune
with the background static.

1876

my first eighteen years
i lived in an old house across
from the old town hall, erected
the later part of the 19th Century.

the tall stone structure was planed,
erected and engraved with the year,
one hundred years after
the signing of the US Constitution.

along the line, i am sure,
people worked hard, even
fudged a bit with the timing,
and were pleased it came out that way.

1876 was carved in stone
for all to see, prominently
high on the face of the building,
just below the roof top towers.

from across the street i saw it
everyday i looked.
of course, it was there
even days i didn’t look.

though years have passed, and I’m sixty-five,
my feelings for that building haven’t changed.
i respected that old place.
they knew what they were doing.

now the house i lived in and that town hall,
along with the rest of downtown,
since, have been torn down.
urban renewal they called it,

and got new police fire and city quarters
a new post office out of it, and the old bank.
things like stores, several restaurants
many bars, two drugstores,

ice cream shops, newsstand,
parking, the movie theater, the dairy,
public restroom and benches,
the old hotel, things for the little people

were taken away,
not to be returned.
now there’s space
in their place.

after my forty years away,
i’m back, one street over
and a few blocks down,
living in a home dating from 1838.

in 1876 a prominent citizen and minister
was halfway through the
forty-one years
he had lived here.

the town hall was called the opera house
where shows and meetings were held.
i know the Reverend Samuel Marks
co-founder of the Mason’s Lodge

buried under the tallest monument in
the old cemetery,
i know that Marks
had visited that beloved hall.

thus giving new significance to me,
for a once-prominent building
in this town,
that isn’t anywhere.

suddenly, i’m old
and among the last
to remember the village,
and that beloved old building.

i will fondly remember
the old town hall and the life
the way it was; until i too, wash
into wherever memories go.

in what i've said there is nothing new.
it’s what old people always, have done
and do holding dear to precious history,
bringing to mind how it used to be.

same fields

same fields
different crops.
roads have grown,
they’re wider.
lots.

and lots
fewer stars at night,
so many cars
more trucks,
stacked double- deck trailors.

a freeway goes through now
the middle of where farms used to be.
where i knew green
so long ago

when my friends family
plowed long days.
where Indians lost arrow heads
right over there
and years later just walking along
we found them.
it was so easy
a kid could do it.

at dusk we helped
and closed the gate
when good dog
brought the cattle in from pasture.

we drank fresh cider
from great barrels
and slept between hay bales
in the barn

now in those same fields
the farm is gone
a golf course has come,
new houses have popped out of the ground
quick as mushrooms in the spring.

a neighbors’ dog
barks at night inside the house
to be let outside to pee.
if he’s a guard dog
he must be guarding the TV,

whatever you do -
Don’t touch that dial!
blink and you could miss
what is coming next
in these same fields.

the electric company

spot lights on the site
of the twin towers in NYC
confused migrating birds.
had to turn the lights off
so birds would quit circling.

in these times
anything happens
my first question is
who’s making money on it?
cause what ever it is, in these times
the main objective is not the good of man.

easy into it

a few minutes talking
at the table
quiet Sunday morning
door open

as always, robin on urgent business
doves calmly sitting in the yard
air still, no breeze
autumn’s on the corner

night rain dampness lingers
inside our clocks tick away
gray Sunday morning beginnings
an easy start of another day

believe

if you don't smile
you don't believe
in flowers.

party notice

headline in the paper,
read it over a guys shoulder.
43 million viewers watched Ken Burns
throw a baseball out at a game.

this is an opportunity.
if readership stays the same
i will have had 43 million
hits on my blog

in 21 thousand, five hundred
years, seven months
and three days.
that’s a Wednesday.

i’ll have to have
to have
the party that Friday.
BYOB




now in 21 thousand years
if i forget who Ken Burns is
remind me
remind me

test of endurance

cut my beard off - way.
left mustache mine,
trimmed like Hugh O’brien
as Wyatt Earp.

driving down the lane,
the city rescue truck
large as a wingless flying box car
pulls out in front of me
going 23 in a 35.
i exhaled slowly.

behind me, swoops to my bumper,
the milky white, lights on, Battle Star Galactica.
a sporty, bushy - bonde Klingon at the helm.
chewing either a wad of renegade rhino
or gum.
close as she was
i could hear her poppin’.

passing the golf course
the earthly remains of Euell Gibbons
in a large black late-model boat of a car
pulls out in front of everyone
going slow –w –w –l - y
obviously looking for flowers to eat.

thus i learned
why the marshal in the old west wanted everyone
to check their hardware,
instead of riding through town
packin’ loaded six-guns.

September Eleven

sold our tv
years ago,
a few days after
we had seen enough.

got up late that morning.
as i entered the living room
m. had the TV on -
terrible news.

a newscaster on the street in Manhattan
a plane had hit . . .
that instant behind him we saw the second plane
soar into the tower

September Eleven
i recall the terrible day
planes excluded from the sky
after the event in Manhattan

i went outside to look
because there was one plane
unaccounted for
coming our way

and it was there, nearly overhead,
over Lake Erie,
the only thing in the sky.
halfway between Cleveland and Detroit.

i saw the large commercial jet turn.
that never happened before, never.
the only plane in the sky
and it looped completely,

made a circle
over the lake
and then headed back East
toward Pennsylvania.