our way

Though at times it appears that way, this is not a diary, it’s a simple poetry blog (I like simple). Here’s one from Roma.

First, a writers comment: You know, when I read my stuff, I want it to run right along. If it meanders a bit for a reason, that's okay too.



our way

down our street
not even a street
a cobblestone alley
way – call it a way
down our way thirty seconds
we’re into the nearly on the corner bar Juliano’s

jeeze he has a happy face when we come in
thirty-something, thin and fit, always in a t-shirt
he and his charming wife run the place

we took position
on the tall wooden backless bar stools
not cozy, but we weren’t moving in
we came for a couple of quick glasses of wine
well, not quick
glasses of wine in Roma aren’t quick
not now, nor have they ever been

Juliano always recommends an
Italian red something we never heard of
and we partook
under soft amber light, sipped in slow time
mulling the day, how it played
no crowd as yet, nearly dinner hour
hardly a sound
we looked around, noted every thing
including paintings on the wall
oh boy, not much there
and no rush for us

we ordered a second glass
would you like to try something different?
no, grazie, the same

and thusly an hour slid along the bar
dropped on the floor
skid out the door, it did

thusly time went by the wayside
and we followed it home
I do tell, it was swell

gate 20

on our way to gate 20 in terminal A
we kept walking up and down
couldn’t find it

street numbers in Italy you expect to be hard to find
in some areas households choose their own number
any number they want
I’m going to call mine 007

in more orderly areas numbers run consecutively
with one side of the street independent of the other
so the 300 block could be across from the 700 block
odds on one side, even on the other, sometimes

finding a gate in the air terminal should be easy
after much looking
determining gate 20 wasn’t there,
we asked
a worker said it was not in terminal A
it was downstairs in the new terminal AA

A..A ?
in twenty years i’ve never heard an Italian stutter
there must be another malady to compensate for this lack
I’m sure it has something to do with numbering

will the next new terminal be AAA?
I’ll drink to that
or drive to it

second glance

Thanks to each of you for your participation in the comments section of this blog. Your words are encouragement.

The well hasn't run dry, there's more to do and say - poems, like the next hitters in the line up, are waiting on deck for a chance at the plate, but appease me a bit, today i wish to return to the core

goodbye roma

goodbye roma
i’ve had it with you
and might miss you
maybe after a while
cause you bother me
abuse and take me for granted
crowd me on your buses
push in front of me every time
i get in line
treat me with no regard
and when i’ve reached my limit
then you make fresh pasta
and tasty pizza
your wine’s good too
did i say i like your cheese?

one size fits all

to the airport
saw a crowd of dignitaries
military and police flood a special gate
Prince Charles came and left earlier this week
wasn’t him
tom hanks and ron howard were in town the other day

in the lounge it was me
and an old fart man
wearing a dorkhead teal mesh golf cap
as he stared into space
coughed
no, he didn’t cover his mouth

then saw me looking at him
as he sat there
with his drooling mouth hung open
I looked at him, he looked at me
just like prince Charles, we were waiting
for a plane

welcome to america

I.
“good evening
welcome to our flight
all passengers must be seated”
that seemed reasonable to me
then she said, “here’s how
to buckle your seat belt”
II.
i saw a guy who looked like Jonathan, my son
i told my wife, who saw
only a slight resemblance, and shrugged
i told her not to worry
it’s not like robins
i can tell one from the other
III.
i was in the supermarket thirty seconds
when a lady came within three feet of my shopping cart
with her shopping cart
and apologized
by the time i looked her way she was gone,
did she think i was packing heat?

pitiful degree

I met a man down in Hollywood
I ain't naming names
he really worked me over good
just like Jesse James

(from Poor, Poor Pitiful Me as sung by Linda Ronstadt
written by Warren Zevon)

pitiful degree

my blood is from Poland and the north since forever
normally my body is a degree or two cooler than hers
she is a touch of the Cherokee
I’ll drive the car this morning

she said it is good she’s not
riding a horse to the dentist
it would smell fear
and buck her off

ohio morning

Ohio morning rose
by it self today
i didn’t have to help
it was dark when i got up

and forgot the impending first crack of light
as slippered i listened from the porch
doves the only sound,
whatever they say, i’m sure they repeat themselves
i don’t count the way off highway hum

or the leaves rubbing together in a breath of breeze
or were they unfolding to make that noise?
i mean, trees are made compatible
yet may have to stretch and scratch when they wake

so then it was morning,
had coffee and tried in vain to consider
what the heck i’d been dreaming
that had seemed so darn important all night long

i heard Herb the frog say something
and wondered how he slept tucked in cold mud last winter
Ohio is like living in a primitive forest
without the monkeys, giant leaves and tumbling waterfalls

plus, we have a postman
i meant to say practically like living
and if you had to skip back to see what i am talking about
you’re not concentrating hard enough

wake up
and smell the frog