engraving

An engraving looks like a pen and ink drawing, but from start to finsh the metal pate etching is an involved process. Part of the art is to make it look simple.

the true cross

constantio teotedesco of romania/transylvania

was applying guma laca to an old piece of furniture

and making it shine like a collector’s garage-kept ’57 buick

this other guy was making in-laid wooden clothes hangers

and i asked why

he said he was doing it for the fun of it

cause no one buys them

i asked his name

and he said Cruccia

the italian word for clothes hanger

i asked if he was joking

he thought i wanted the name of the thing he was making

and i finally got his real name, eugenio

i wasn’t sure if he was kidding

because it sounds like the italian word for genius

but is eugene

it’s tough being a foreigner

passing through, among friends

in a little workshop in roma

a plate engraving (incisione)

half a haze
half a sun
the early morning fisherman

secret love

i love clocks

they keep on ticking

and isn’t it amazing

time doesn’t exist

oh, time is here, we made it so

and you’d better not be late

cause that’s bad,

I know, I know

despite universal laws and regulations

I like clocks anyway

every time, anytime

cause they keep ticking and ticking

wealth revealed

today i went through my sock drawer

the strays and stragglers were gathered

my wife put them together

she is good to me

of course, i could have done the deed

but she is so much more skilled.

it is her lot in life

to be thorough until, at last, there is completion

i now have seventeen pair of clean socks

and more in the dirty clothes

you may as well know me now as i am

the john paul getty of socks

laboratorio

the painting is of my lab in ohio.
from my lab, looking out.
that's our 12 year old geo in the reflection
50 miles to the gallon
good ole geoie

below your will find the objects from the bessans photo blown up. if i could run picassa any better they'd be big as a house, but i couldn't transfer them larger. take it from me, they don't look like smudges on the camera lens. they are three cornered things put together to form different shapes.
smudge my butt, that's what i meant to say to my contact with expert credentials.

back to the painting. it's acrylic on canvas.
i'm putting together a web site. let's say several of us are.
not to sell art or poetry, but to put it out there, cause i think it is time for the world to enjoy things, to appreciate the beauty in the world.

i live in rome most of the year
even here the new age has overrun the beauty of the ages
i have hope the wheel keeps turning
and like a wave there are highs and lows

give all to love
patiently trod
smile when you can
do the best you can

sun goes up
sun goes down
the good times
will come around

so now a guy calls - just now
he found my name in the rome phone book
because he found a telecomando, or a device to open a gate
it had my last name and the first three numbers of my voip phone on it

but it is a device to open a gate and i don't have a gate
and my last name is the only one like it, of the six million names in roma
he found me, but it wasn't my thing he found
my last name is Sender and it could mean the device was a sender

the numbers?
incomplete, but they almost meant something to me

like the story of roma
incomplete
and i'm not sure what it means to me
maybe that's why i'm still here

Bessans, France click on pic for larger view

Bessans, France

I was going through digital photos from two or three years ago and emailed this one to a

friend. "This is good, Walter. Most interesting. Enlarge the photo and look carefully. Do tell me,

you were there, what are those two things in the sky?" I wrote.

He replied, "Birds."

Then I saw a third thing in the sky and a possible fourth, above and to the right of the one on

the left. The entire file contained about a hundred photos, both indoors and out. I checked

them all again. This was the only one with smudges that caught my attention.


After a short while my friend wrote again, "Winter. Where do these pictures come from?"

I wrote back, "I think you took it. It was on a cd you sent me from your trip to Bessans,"

Then I knew he had accidentally photographed swamp gas.

metal plate engraving of via dei cappellari

the return of blackie

Beginning in the spring we have a lot of birds in our yard. My wife likes to keep the bird bath clean for them. The cardinals have their own bath they prefer to use, while the other birds use the community bath. There are robins, sparrows, doves, starlings, cardinals and blackbirds. We bought peanuts for ourselves and threw a few to the birds because it seemed the friendly thing to do.

While other birds didn’t pay much attention, one black bird in particular loved the peanuts. After just a few days it was apparent that the free peanuts got to be a habit for this black bird. He’d come around everyday at the same place for a tasty peanut. Only a short while later we had named him Blackie, our favorite bird.

It would have been nice to have a colorful cardinal, or even a blue jay as a favorite, but the other birds remained aloof. The best we could attract was our new feathered pal, the solo blackbird

That summer a lot of birds came and went through our yard, but only Blackie was a regular that we could identify. The robins had children and hung around teaching them to dig for worms, and the doves walked around in pairs. But, Blackie made a noise to attract our attention. We talked to him and he would fly in for his peanut.

In the fall, most birds migrate south for the winter. Only the illusive cardinals stay year round.

One day The following summer, when my wife was working on the side of the house she heard a black bird squawk. She looked up and said, “Blackie, is that you?” It was. She went around to the other side of the house where we used to feed him and he followed, and took up his usual position at a particular spot on our fence and waited for his peanut.

My wife and I were happy to see the old wanderer and enjoyed the surprise visit for a second year. Through out the summer Blackie was a regular, and became friendlier and calmer with our presence.

The third summer he returned again. Now he would fly to our back porch and I’d sit in a chair and put a peanut on the small table and he’d hop onto it and take his peanut. Now we had a pet.

By the end of that summer he was taking peanuts from my hand, still a wild bird, but happy to play the routine of entertaining us for his peanut.

Most every morning Blackie would be there. We’d look out and see him on the fence, and as soon as we came out with the peanuts he’d fly over and take one.

Many blackbirds were living in a wild an area a mile south of our home. Each morning they’d fly over and head to the farmers corn field where they’d feast for the day, then return in the evening.

The following year the farmers had complained and the city burned the wild area where the birds rousted. No longer did we have flocks of black birds passing over head. Blackie had moved on with his friends.

May rushed by with no sign of him, we wondered if he died, relocated with the others, or went off to make a family. Then in June he returned, and this time he brought a younger bird with him. We called it Blackie Junior. This was the fourth year in a row for Blackie on our fence. The same spot, the same routine of squawking and waiting for his peanut. Unbelievable, four years in a row we had Blackie as a guest. We only saw him a few days that year. His son never a taste for a peanut.

The fifth year there were even fewer birds around. May and June passed without a sign of him. Then at the end of July, when we had all but given up hope, he returned.

It was a quick stop. He must have been living farther away, but he made his appearance, did the squawks and the peanut grabbing routine, then flew back to the fence. I swear he looked back at us before he flew off, and that was it for Blackie’s visits.

We still look for him, or son of Blackie, but now he is only a pleasant memory, yet we still keep our peanuts ready just in case.

windy day
gulls coming in
off the lake
blowing in
gliding high
and sideways

The world is for the young

If you can read this

You’re not young