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.

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.

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.

 

 

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

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

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." 

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.

on the 492

on the 492 to piazza cavour

by tom's coke zero cafe

these streets again, oh my

we are acquainted

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

new world order

in further effort to put the world in order

i am cutting my paper trash into little pieces;

makes it easier to handle,

and the bag will hold more.

today i finished with the plastic packaging

for wrapped cooked, folded dough things with

spinach inside with a name i don't remember

and can't read the label.  not anymore.

so the water is boiling

the things are in the water

i want to know how long

to boil them, but the wrapping paper

with cooking instructions

is in the trash, cut thoroughly

into little unreadable pieces.

they must be done now

been boiling a while

while i was writing this

and forgot what time it was

when i put them in the pot.

i have a bananat for desert;

i remember what they are called.

did you know monkeys peel them

from the bottom up; so next time 

do as the monkeys do, for they

as a group, have more experience

shucking bananas than your mother

or anyone you went to school with.

 

4. queen here

didn't get here yesterday

arrived today noon-thirty

in pretty violet hat and dress;

for in rome it's springtime.

met president napolitano first,

then to vatican to see pope francis

after lunch.

flies out this afternoon.

bunching activities into her day

i always say, and that's the way

good queens travel.

we waited to see her

at chiesa nuova and catch some sun.

bill was there, and rosemary too

who hasn't seen her since her  coronation.

nothing happened, all was glum

then suddenly sirens filled the air,

motorcycles sped, here they come.

the entourage appeared right here.

moving stately, rolling by,

the dark, flagged limo with the queen;

we saw her looking out at us, and we waved;

she waved at us as she went on.

it was quick and we were ready,

proud to be there and prepared

to see the queen, we surely did.

all went well, and it was good.

in and out in 4 hours.
meets  the president and the pope
home for dinner
that's how to visit rome

3. queens's eve

in rome on the morrow

sans popcorn and streamers

will pass her motorcade.

hurrah,  the sun will shine

reflecting on events . . .

the girl crowned june '53

on the black and white round screen

of our first TV,  

i  was eight.

texas bill, eleven

ambled prairie grass

to view at a neighbor's;

his uncle said remember.

parliament square, london,

felicitous rosemary, 15

in new dress and first stockings

with mother and tickets

sat covered,  

protected from light rain

as the select paraded

into westminster abbey

and bill said,

last time in rome 2000

her hairdresser used an english dryer

and blew out the electricity

in the quirinale, the president's palace

didn't lose it everyday, all searched

for the circuit box, hidden

behind a portrait, there are many

no one could remember which one

2. queen again

march 5, 1983 queen waved at me

in san francisco i was on the corner

at union square happening by

with about 7,200 other people

and so was she

maybe that's why she

did that queen wave thing

you know the one

it's the rage

so this week

31 years and a week later

her vision and mine have gone downhill

but i'll be around

when she drives by

and see if she remembers me

i'll know her, she'll be the one

in the white box hat

1. queen comes to town

mark it down

queen comes to town

on thursday;

we'll see her go by.

circling helicopters and

legions of motorcycling police

will be a reminder; 

and,  no need for we,

the head count,  to put on our dancing shoes

or dress for the occasion.

five second rule

best recent news i heard.

a scientist said - and that's

the good part so you don't have to worry -

cause a scientist said -

"If you drop food

you have five seconds to pick it up

and eat it, no worry."

that's final.

if you're slow

you're in big trouble.

maybe a goner -

and that's real final.

if born a bird

if born a bird                

parents will feed you,

keep you and the nest clean.

the few notes you sing

is all the music you ever need.

there is no drummer.

lift your shoulders when it rains.

to go a long way

fly with the group.

look around, a mate comes along one day.

by example pass on what you know.

social networking is survival.

beware of enemies.

read the sun and the stars.

there is no other journalism.

the few notes you sing

is all the music you ever need.

there is no drummer.

kumbaya - an appeal to god

speaking from the sea of thought

where we are

take the news and shove it

the world is crying, lord

we don't need war

or to get to the stars

we must undo  our mess

and deal with the trash

albeit truthful

open your eyes

rising in the morning

is sufficient initial accomplishment.

take it easy

carefully enter  the new day

without undo struggle

welcome events 

complete what is necessary first

naturally choices appear

what to wear, how to prepare

events approach magically

on first light of the sun.

follow through on your commitments

manage your resources

there are always choices

obligations will move you

when long skies open wide 

for puffy caramel colored animal-shaped clouds to roll by,

it’s fine time to mellow and consider 

whatever you want 

 . . . whatever.

under the bunk

this morning

headline says

a guy was released

from prison in Louisiana

after thirty years on death row

new evidence was found

wind whipper

long wind whipper in green
bird holder and ring maker
always standing and patient
every time i come to see you
you are still there, watching
with no eyes
hearing with no ears
one tall finger bent on the wind

morning

woke up thought

of oatmeal, did

ride to trionfale market

no one on the full bus

thinking academy awards

that ended a few hours ago

the brightest stars are twinkled out

a quarter way around the earth

mr. safety town

mr. safety town i am
let her drive anyway
put my arm out for additional signal
had fun riding bare feet on the dash

skeptical

turned on the radio

heard someone giving me advice

wants to put me on a regiment

maybe in a regiment

was talking fast with assurance

mentioned drugs i should take

i only know this person

as a voice on the radio

i could believe this authority

but sensibly retained skepticism.

shook my head, sipped my coffee,

turned off the radio.

ain't got no stinking badges just gratitude to you my fiend

thanks to you for my

birthday wishes

during this my

birthday year of celebration

the month is over

but the year of joy

is underway

now let's ride along

it is going to be a good one

or maybe it will rain everyday

doesn't matter

we can take it all

with love and joy

and cookies and ice cream

if wishes were horses

we'd all ride leaping

people soup

people soup

like assorted vegetables

in turning halls,

the designated waiting area.

of nineteen, half accompany the sickly,

only three are under sixty,

three or four walking by are staff.

for hours a crying young woman is present

there are no children

an old woman yells out in aggravation

periodically

an ambulance stops outside

doors open as a man is wheeled in

the thumping is a nurse

pounding on his chest

the disheveled drunk

semi-conscious on the floor

curls against the wall

a disoriented man in his thirties

badly scratched on face, neck,

hands, all visible skin, moaning,

someone places a motorcycle helmet

next to him on the gurney

intermittently a woman loudly coughs,

low voices murmur in waves

occasionally there is movement

most everyone remains seated

in winter jackets buttoned

the entire hospital is slow

with the main computer down.

there is never music or TV

amid infrequent quiet talking

ambulance workers wheel out a closed

metal box the size of a coffin

an attendant wheels a gurney through

and again the same obstinate, old woman oblivious

must be assisted out of the way

some patients are called in for attention

who knows what germs are air born

what psychological ingredients abound

a screech is heard behind closed doors

no one knows if it is a patient

or metal door in need of grease

cutbacks and overcrowding

there is no cafeteria only

two exact change machines port junk food

after several hours

faces become familiar

some go out for a smoke

thus sunday passes

crossover days

goodbye season of  furnace high

long, cold nights.

winter succumbs

releases its grip

these crossover days, winter to spring.

big coats are put away

along with scarves, gloves and heavy hats

to be packed in a chest for a well needed rest.

short dark days are lessening

in the cusp of warm

that will be soon

drawing our attention.

visible in the birds and trees,

in  bright young grass growing,

in the cracks in the sidewalks,
here is the advent of spring.

Monte Carlo Pizza

first in for lunch

at monte carlo pizza

two pastas we chose were so so,

served on metal plates, not charming.

the boss now 20 years later

is wider, heavy, worn. 

the house soon packed as always.

a waiter remembered us, and we him.

memories of the white-walled place

stirred a taste of long ago,

nearly forgotten good time evenings,

perhaps nevermore to re-kindle.

what i' d like to do

what i'd like to do -

can that be a poem?

and when i think of you  

i might include that too 

could be partially amusing.

if it weren't confusing.

isn't that a fine

how do you do?

woke at three

woke at three

got up to pee

then slept again

dreamed hills and trees

woke again at 115.

someone had kindly

put time back

on my clock

lone warming thought

a passenger plane flew over

purring like a freight train.

oozing a low rumbling hum of vibration

that cloaks all stone of intercity Rome

many someones gliding on approach

are on the pattern.

seat belts buckled, landing gear deployed

i feel them in their excitement.

when the plane has passed

all is quiet morning again.

the next sound is a vender

pushing a squeaky steel wheeled cart to market.

sweet comfort is familiarity.

a shout echoes,  jarring predawn.

then stillness,  allowing me again to slowly awaken

in the comfort of lone warming thought.

90 miles

about 90 miles

is enough to travel

one night on dream mountain

been a good while

been a good while

since he came up to Rome

from Campo Basso in '44,

an able young man of 32.

carries the years in his eyes

as he indicates with his chin - out there.

recalling for me many rolling fields,  

now blanketed in suburbia.

76 and working every day.

over the 49 years he has taxied.

vehicles and times changed.

he drove me well.

paid and thanked him,

said it was a good to ride.

he restored belief there is good among us.

in parting we wished each other well.