if in a slip stream through time

if in a slip stream through time
to pop up more than a decade ago, behind myself
just walking out the door. dressed for the day,
then on the road where traffic flows the same

a stop for a coffee in an old bar
that hasn’t gone modern, then to enter
the appointed place at the appointed time
with a last look toward the sun as i walk in the door

only half wondering at the time
if ever will i think about this day again
bring it back, this pleasant air, happy i am,
a least knowing, what a gift it is to be here

sad poems

some poems are unhappy
sadness need not be sought
or brought out as the printed words

let’s leave sad sleep in peace, shall we.
we’ll do other things. women can watch the men
and man can dream of girls

we will live quietly, wait and have fun
enjoy the silence and the sun
sadness will seek us out soon enough

stone

stone street narrow ways
give strength to the noise
echoes rolling
in ricochet

images of friends
acquaintance memories
evaporating, barely holding on
not enough to make an image

open the windows
nearly hear the dampness
on grey stone walls
absorbing life, a drop at a time

yet the blade sharpener still comes by
calling out for all above to hear
as he pushes down the street
here for your service i am "arrotino"

time like olden days

time like olden days
lives on little lanes
off main crowded ways
when it's sunny or it rains

a lone sturdy woman
shorter then we
and rounder too
in lengthy dark country dress

carries a covered box in her hands
and a large open cardboard box
piled high with clothing
balanced atop her head

steady duck walking
oblivious to us she ambles by
showing her skill and no concern
in a manner that tireless practice has endowed

until you get it right

all the dead and wreckage
poor with nothing more
than hope
in the news
far away
the destruction of Haiti

next door Donny, body like a penguin
legs like a rooster
in the can for making cash by
selling pot to his cousins
come on by, cousin

one year throwing firecrackers over
our very old wooden house and into the tree
i had to go out to speak with the drunken clan

another time party drinking three a.m.
music louder than passing trains
where are the cops tonight?
i went over to speak with them again

always a party
always Donny in the thick of it
cars on the lawn
seventeen is the record
always drinking, always noise
they hear on the scanner the cops are coming

then they are silent, trying to act
as if they were napping on the lawn
all fifteen of them
some on their feet
others in chairs, or on tops of cars
all with beers in hand
they promise to be quiet

another eve we wake to shouts
on the street at two a.m.
bending forward, hands on knees
taunting his opponent to take his best shot
then his mother runs out there trying to stop them

everyone yelling, it’s chaos, until they shout it out
then it’s calm, then he hugs the guy and all wave goodbye
we hear him call, “i love you, man”

pneumonia at home, goes to bed
geeze, Donny, you were only sick
couldn’t you do anything right?
you were only thirty-five
when we get back in ohio
i’ll have to go over
and speak with them

mr. moon mixes his days

coming out of trestevere
see Giancarlolino Benedetti Corcos
used his full name cause he’s up an coming
told us to come to his art show by Porta Portese
but it was last night and i forgot

then at Ponte Sisto ran into Mark Kostobi
the artist with promotion in his veins
has a tv show now where the audience names his paintings
has a studio where artists paint his pictures

the Pope motorcade was coming by in a few minutes
Mark did a sculpture for him, it’s all on his website
asked Mark if the Pope was going to
slow down and wave

friend bill the cook met the pope three times
his picture with bill is on bill’s aunt’s mantle
bill has no money, no papers, no web site or cell phone or TV show
and 40 years cooking for various embassy events
is so inconspicious that people see the photo
and don't even notice that guy with the pope

walked by our street parked car
hasn't been damaged yet
three coins were on the drivers seat
mr. moon moved the car last week
M. provided disparaging words
but i’m working on my pockets, i said

stopped at shoe man
sent us two doors down to shoe lady
bought an insert, cause two days ago
i bought two shoes, two sizes too large

can’t take them back they say
she’s a mean shoe lady
won’t exchange them
everyone says

maybe next full moon i’ll take the other pair
walk back across Ponte Sisto,
ask and hear it myself from
the horse's ass, i mean mouth

fictitious facetiousness

the clocks are wound just right
making time with perfect pendulation
yet i had to take them back
to clean loose ends, and i'll be damned, they did

remembering a night
that didn’t go my way
my lips were too light
the look on her face

it didn’t seem to matter that much
at the time
kept true to some oddness
holding near my love

that saw light in me
and who knows what else
i have no idea
i wasn't aware

my path must be worn
like ages old stone
getting us home
were we belong

so why would i trip
when i know these stones so well
in the cold walk through hell
be darns ya, be darns ya

b.

make the frog sound like a loose banjo string
let him sing all night for all of us
it’s heaven calling
don’t you hear it

be darn ya
there are only distractions on the way
you’ve got to stay wound
to keep ticking

come on, lovergirl
we have to get going
they find us here and that's bad
this beach is closed on moonless nights



addendum:

when they were putting English together
who ever thought it was a good idea to
spell wound – as in wound the clock
and wound - as in injury
the same way