another space between

another space between
on a bus way out again,
way up denial, 27 march,
one month into chronic birthday digestion

make a note
sound waves, light waves, ocean waves
slow waves, fast waves, wet waves
more stuff you don’t have to Google

on the bus with folks from Nigeria
the six year old kid was quiet and observant
obviously not a TV junky, make a note -
dots of sun light from a board with holes - do it

not thinking of you, like the two end to end
parking spaces open and a one car pulls in the middle
and essentially takes two
he was not thinking of you either

deep up denial again, but it’s all true
i could tell we were far out of the city
when we saw a guy leading two camels,
at least they were on the sidewalk

sometime notes i make on the bus
can’t be deciphered because of the jiggle
but i know what i saw
about the camels i mean, i do so verify

note: when Italians count on their fingers
unlike America where one is the index finger
here, one is the thumb
just thought i’d let you know

m. just read a news story online
about a man arrested for trying to revive
a road kill possum
with mouth to mouth resuscitation

then TomC writes to say
he couldn’t digest his cornflakes or something
cause i skipped a day
pshaw! maybe when i was ten

i could have skipped all day.
what i did was lose a day just like
Ray Miland in Lost Weekend, Billy Wilder, 1945,
in which he played an alcoholic

and i just saved you more Googling
maybe Google lost some money then
and/or will make it up
somewhere else

note - if i wrote this in paragraph form
and you printed it, it’d waste money
on ink for big letters and periods
or space there of


(reprise from march 2010)

brushing teeth, mine

brushing teeth, mine
i fell asleep brushing my teeth
thinking how my grandmother used to like
Saturday TV with the midgets wrestling

"Your mother's mother?" she asked
"Yes," I said.
"That figures."

now what was that supposed to mean?
i gave her a sharp look, i did
you should have seen it.

anyway i didn't really fall asleep
zoned out into brushing land
more like it.

a mild trance state
perfectly normal
it happens, right?

(reprise from March '08)

these are the Amish

neat and country clean,
shiny faces,
bowl cut blond hair boys,
girls heads white wrapped,

chin to ankle dresses.
hand made clothing
neatly pressed.
brains stilled of the noise.

save click brush sweeping of the brooms - whisk, whisk.
and heavy clip, clop stepping horses
pulling black carriages.
the family is a unit.

we turned in at the hand made sign
but they were fresh out of eggs.
notice also said donuts.
girl said they had ‘em.

gave the nod, she left her push mower,
to kitchen storage out back.
walked barefoot the length of the gravel drive
in her ankle length gray swaying dress.

returned with an assortment in a plastic bag,
seven or eight doughnuts for a stiff five bucks,
weighing in slightly less than near a pound apiece.
puffy fresh, sticky sweet, tasty mighty good.




why wasn't there a coma after tasty?
cause the rule is: you write 'em any way you like.

simplify

occasionally friends tell me things
and i recognize the words
that i told that person
some years before.

now a good friend has told me
he remembers and benefits
from something i told him,
“Simplify”.

i thought a credit to his intelligence
for him to remember who told him.
then i had to look it up
to see where i read the thought.

It was Henry David Thoreau who wrote in Walden -
"Where I Lived and What I Lived For"
“Our life is frittered away by detail... Simplify, simplify, simplify! ... Simplicity of life and elevation of purpose.”

Walden Pond was on land owned by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Henry David Thoreau once wrote
to his friend and mentor, Emerson,
"Simplify, simplify, simplify."

Emerson wrote back,
"Don't you think
one 'simplify'
is enough?"

my fortune cookie said

my fortune cookie said
well, it didn’t say
it read,
that is to say, i read.

should i start over?
that’s not what i in the cookie read,
but it seems a good idea,
starting over.

if we have a choice,
if we’re not rich enough, healthy enough,
or have loved enough,
food to eat, place to sleep.

let’s work on it.
make our own cookie fortune.
print it by hand,
send it to ourselves

with insufficient postage,
then act surprised when
the postman returns it to our door,
i mean, to my door.

it’s not our door
cause we don’t live together.
well, we may,
but not you and i together.

you may live with someone,
that is possible,
but, if you’re not M.
you and i don’t live together.

but then, i am me,
you are busy being you.
now give me
my fortune cookie.

you have to make out
as best you can.
make it up.
make it out.

and i know you will
because we all
are doing the best
we can.

i don't have
to read that
bit of truth
in a fortune cookie.

ten o'clock in london

ten o'clock in London
BBC radio reports

fifty dead, suicide bomber in Bagdad,

Israeli soldier posed on Facebook
with blindfolded, handcuffed old Palestinian women,
under the caption life is good,
said she was doing no harm.

scientists estimate
four thousand elephants
left in the wild.

also, to keep you listening
a tease about the Beatles in Germany.

you know that’s not a recent event,
the beatles left germany fifty years ago.

that story would come at the end of the news
to keep you listening.
they’ll promote it several more times,
stay tuned.

our time

in the comfort of home
while reading a story of American Indians,
a scene where others watched
from an open tent flap,

a brave arrived in camp
left his tired horse
then laid prone at the stream
to drink clear water

in pure air
under heat of the sun
quiet all around
ripples of the stream.

it occurred to me
that now
is not like that anymore
and we each have our time.


I have reworked this many times, although still not entirely satisfied, the point of it was important enough that it superseded an attempt at art. We each have our time.

Honey, I'm trying to keep it simple and say it how it is.

bee

What did I find, the Queen of Queens? This fat bee was large with a black rear end the size of a refrigerator light bulb, no kidding.

I see my account here doesn’t differ much from the poem, so there you have it - I’ll put a wraps on this so you can proceed to the real meat of the bee.


bee

from the porch
i see a bee
large and in the flowers
had to walk up close
to get a good look at

yellow body
a swollen back end like the hood
of a shiny old black Buick
jeeze o’pete
zip on, big buddy
zip on

nxt!, notes on heaven

First is nxt, a strange mechanical piece, I put on this site August '08. I was looking through my files, found it, and brought it back. Recycling is good.

Also back a second time is notes on heaven from November '08


nxt!
giraffes have the same number of neck bones as humans
nxt, yr nxt
sorry, machine I was just reading . . .
nxt!
make your selection and insert coins in slot
nxt!
give me a minute, i was reading the instructions
out of order!
wait, I put my money in
nxt!
you took my money
nxt!
what is the disturbance here?
oh, nothing, officer, but this machine just took my money
machines don’t make mistakes, come with me, civilian
don’t handcuff me, is that a taser, bro?
pick him up and drag him to the wagon
nxt


notes on heaven

notes on heaven
cobblestones are laid smooth
with grass growing between,
all rivers shall run clear,
here i noticed the Tevere yesterday
golden brown, like a shiny pie crust,

back to heaven,
if you have to park the meters will
give you money. all birds and animals
and people speak the same language,
sounds like Chinese but isn’t

house at isn't der

I’m working to enter poetically into the sound and rhythm of the 21st Century, for that I’ll sacrifice conventional grammar.
Face it – “down to da ground” and "do dee dark" have poetical swing.


house at isn't der

when a haunted house
gets torn down,
down to da ground,
where do dee dark night spirits go?

would dey stay up der somewhere
in thin air,
ones formerly of creaky stairs
dat wandered upper floors by night,

dose dat whisper talked,
den easily walked
through solid walls,
like dey weren’t der? or were dey?

an tell me, can ghosts be
able to see
to remain in a house
dat isn’t der?

as light
by night
as a whiff
of scented candles.

poof!

driverless cars

With the latest technology, engineers are taking a journey from Italy to China in driverless vehicles! The 8,000 mile trip will take about 3 months!

They are making the trek with two orange vans, and each is equipped with an actual person for when instances arise that the automobiles can’t handle.



latest technology
driverless cars
give me a blue one baby,
send it to the drive through

call ahead, roll down the window,
have the attendant throw in a loaf of bread
toss in a cold beer, put it on the tab
then honk me goodbye, baby, i’m going to China.

uses the computer

uses the computer
to play solitaire.
i ask what web sites he looks at
and he puts a silly look on his face,

guessing it appropriately condescending,
arrogantly feigning intelligence,
to cover ignorance and indifference,
then puts black eight on red seven.

barbeque in the country

picked up Darrel at his farm,
first saw work he’d done,
talked a bit, checked the time
then hit the road.

off out there we drove,
a country parcel north o’ the village,
parked in grass at the part tin clubhouse
for a Sunday good eatin’ chicken barbeque

the American Legion put it on,
country eatin’ fun, for all’d come,
at the intersection of parched long fields,
on a rise by rail road tracks.

men fired slow baked glazed golden chicken,
cole slaw, barbeque beans the ladies made,
plus chocolate sheet cake frosted,
with as you please coffee and lemonade.

under yellow sun, very still this hot July noon,
doors and windows were slung open a mile,
an electric fan hummed a welcome summer breeze
in our rural, out of the way, little town Ohio.

not always the hero

ok, so, just to show I’m not
making myself always the hero,
i got off the crowded bus smiling,
saw a flash of white

flapping large as a napkin
right on the front of me.
my zipper half way down,
my shirt was sticking out.

oh, darling you'd think i hardly hear you

for me
no mail for decades.
nary a post in the box,
only cobwebs on my cobwebs.

no need for an in box.
that space by my door
could be permanent no peddler signs
for every holiday occasion.

and now this,
my sixty-fifth birthday year,
i have already received
more than sixty-five solicitations,

not from a chick
to walk me across the street
down to the corner bar
and whisper “watch both ways” into my ear.

what arrives is another offer
for an inexpensive hearing aide.
i’m sixty-five - they’ve got my number
and must be selling it door to door.

Bee Gone

You best bee learning . What’s a bee for? Bee's wax. What do I call this poem? Is it Bee gone or just Gone. I’ll work that out later. The next part concerns you.

Because you're dead doesn’t mean you have nothing more to learn. Let's start there.

You don’t just die and get angel food cake with ice cream and a gold beanie. No, seems there’d be a school for the dead to teach what they didn’t learn on earth.

Straighten ‘em out, work ‘em a bit to make saints out of them; or do you think they just get sent back to earth, recycled stupid. I suppose it could be. Let ‘em stumble along again on their own, and see if they can do any better. I don’t know how it works.


Bee Gone


sitting on the back porch
smoking, having morning coffee
a small bee came zipping around
persistent, wouldn’t go away.

i thought perhaps it could be the spirit
of my dear friend, or my uncle
coming back this warm summer day
checking out how things are going.

staying near
making circles
all alone
going fast.

i blew smoke on him,
brushed him on his way,
not to be disrespectful,
but, he’s got to learn.

The BP oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico began late May or early June.
I guess I may be stuck there.


tough time

tooling down the road
a wild turkey on the right,
standing where you’d be
if you were thumbing a lift.

i blew past him doing fifty plus.
geeze, he was big. big as a dog.
had he heard of the oil spill, do any of them know?
is that why he was out walking? was he stunned?

this is a tough time
appalling, unequaled.
great damage has been done
to the waters, to the life, to the earth.

and we are the caretakers.
oh, what we have we have left for our children,
this legacy we’ve created,
all for pieces of silver.

i thought to continue to write here, to divert attention
away from thoughts of great sadness - disaster.
let me tell you - it isn’t easy, it is sad.
nothing is easy now. so sad.

time machine

standing on the corner
watching all the girls go by
listening to Dean Martin sing that
in 2010 Ohio.

i’m in a chair,
93 degrees outside,
M. in the kitchen,
Dean on the programmable radio station.

a 1908 Saturday Evening Post short story on my lap
that’s takes me back to the old West.
and I’m in a chair in 2010 Ohio, M.’s in the kitchen,
Dean is on the radio singing for us.

you want a time machine?
pick up a book,
turn on the radio,
92.8 degrees outside - so says the Internet.

the son also sleeps

it’s a doggie dog world
look it up.
that cracked me up when I read it,
you know it has the clang of truth.

it’s a doggie dog world,
that’s why my son is having therapy
for a shoulder he took on a bad job of rock climbing
and that doctors sewed upon.

taking naps is safer.
his daughter sees summer slipping away.
he denies the truth,
however, being father makes one old

and consequently forgetful.
i don’t think he hit his head.
hope the old fart remembers
to brush his teeth and change his shorts.

daughter is right,
summer is slipping along at high speed.

m. is locked in at high speed warp factor,
and worries too much.
i worry if she is too tired
to make something good for dinner.

last week she picked blue berries
while i waited,
sat on a bench, read,
and between customers talked to Pseudo Farmer

who lives in Ohio two months each year
in a house built in 1822, fantastic, huh?
and the rest of the time is in Montanna,
no relation to Hannah.

Ohio is 90 degrees,
has been for a month
and will continue warm.
sweet corn is good.

i am too.
half as good as her blue berry pie,
i ate it.
these are words to live by.

solar eclipse

beneath tall ancient sculptured stone monuments
a half hour past noon, waiting.
excited anticipation from crowds gathered on Easter Island,
for scientists proclaimed that Pacific island on the path.

then murmurs hushed, eyes opened skyward
as a moon blanket covered sun, brought five minutes
of daytime solemn darkness and stars.
earth’s seventh full solar eclipse of the 21st Century.

i am old and have yet to witness a total eclipse.
that it good, for it means
there is an event ahead, both moving and spectacular
for me to look forward to.

paper in my pocket

paper in my pocket
making note
preparation for doing
like setting the table

dad did it.
inadvertently, he taught me,
jot thoughts down
afore they get away.

time ticks quicker

notice what’s going on?
mowed the lawn two days in a row.
usually it’s right to wait a week.
we're moving in quick time.

tell someone please
turn down the gas
on the time machine,
obviously it’s running too fast.

many flowers blew into bloom
within a pair a days.
now don't be thinking this is paradise,
life is more like a rolling pair of dice.

blowin' across the highway

political division of the sexes
an obstacle in long standing tradition
the world may someday surmount
or complacently continue to avoid.

like a garbage can
blowing across a highway,
you better stay alert.
try not to cross paths.

continue to not think about it,
most times you may be lucky,
or do right and change your ways
before one has your number.

teeth is all

brush my teeth is all
she asked me what i was doin’
teeth is all i'm doin’
teeth is all

then seven-thirty and we were driving.
she wanted to pick blue berries early
before it got 90 plus humid degrees.
many, many, a record many pickers had the same idea.

through a heavily wooded area on the way,
the guard rail ahead at the crossing came down.
oh no, a train, i moaned, then zip - like that
a locomotive and one train car flashed by.

forty feet ahead of us a buck deer crossed the road
from woods on one side to woods on the other.
two small young deer came out undecided on the road.
we waited 'til the adult female rushed them across to the woods.

at another bend in the road
was a large wild turkey in the brush.
right at the side of the road's where he sat.
a big guy, geeze he was fat.

back home after berries, a blue jay had hit our kitchen widow.
looked open, too clean? don't think so, more than likely
he was thinking distracted and flying too fast.
was lying dead when we arrived. m. got the shovel, buried it.

and the day began
with m. waiting in the car.
only needed a minute to brush my
teeth is all.

mocking bird hill

came out of a song, the name did.
skipped in on the wind, stuck like discarded paper
beyond the fence where Hoppy lived in a shack
at the town dump, on a knoll above Mud Brook.

he was resident care taker, barroom dart baller,
and sometime crossing guard downtown.
a tiny fellow in second hand clothes, worn seaman’s cap,
one leg way shorter than the other.

we’d examine approachable edges when we went dumpin',
finding some old wood piece, or metal gadget,
antiquated discards, to pick up, cart off,
recycle and transform into inventive service.

a busted end table or a bicycle,
an unbroken bit of colorful depression glass,
an original period lamp in need of rewiring,
a long, long time before anyone spoke of toxins.

today not a trace is left of that place on that knoll,
plowed and replanted clean. the dump's been moved,
gone with Hoppy, as are most of those who remember,
the rise over the creek called Mocking Bird Hill.

train 28

that’s the date in June 2010.
i want to differentiate
cause see i’ve talked of trains before.
in absolute way quiet three a.m.
that’s when they come, you know.

with first a subtle vibration in the tracks
from twelve to fifteen states away.
then i got up ate, slept and ate and drank and slept again.
three days later Goliath Machine approaches town,

of course total darkness.
not a star out tonight,
they only come like that, at night you know.
steam rolling vibrational thunder.

with a whistle
a warning
hear it

You
You there
I mean you
Take warning - Watch yourself,
I am coming.

shakes ducks eggs in the marsh
corn kernels rattle off cobs in the fields
and homes from their basements trough foundations vi-
vi-vi-vib—vib-vibrate.
god o’ mighty it’s Heavy Metal son of a bitch
clobbering everything.

i’m three blocks away from the tracks
and total down to dust destruction,
every home, bird’s nest and dog house
tween here and there destroyed
by the merciless rattling shakathon.

yet, like a mystery,
somehow
sleep comes,
deep mellowing sleep.

and then magically
when first bird tweets,
all is rebuilt by dawn,
everything, up and down the streets,

including fillings, crowns and molars replaced
and neighborhood groundhogs back in their burrows,
robins eggs return to their nests,
no cracks in the sidewalks, no more.

all is well again, healed by sight
of first morning light
when i awake and go to the window
and look out that way
to see what happened.

summer storm

summer humid, you can't believe.
oven hot and closet still.
something brewing west,
thick heavy sky darkness rolling.

rain races, beating, hail, high wind - boom,
lightning cracks a quarter mile away.
what’s hit’s on fire
or gone blown to hell now, i’d say.

half hour later, all’s still again,
a bit cooler, lone wren cries loud,
accounting for it's family.
with that we’ll end the day, show’s over.

talking to oneself

talking to oneself,
i did it today,
and know when i say
that’s not what it is at all.

it is speaking to the spirit
of friend or loved one,
absent for the moment
by a nick in time.

they've cut down the big tree

they’ve cut down the big tree today,
bet it’s two hundred years old.
was old fifty years ago
when i was a kid.

before i ever thought of old
i saw it when i rode past
heading for the beach
on my bicycle.

recognized it then as a giant,
the largest trunk in town.
maybe old as the town. course fifty years ago,
they tore the town down too.

called it urban renewal
when they leveled the town.
promises were made,
but they never rebuilt it.

not the town, only city offices
police and fire department
had one police car then
have seventeen now.

urban renewal was for the city
officials and city workers,
not the down town, where the people
walked, shopped and gathered.

now this tree taken down.
makes way, it’s the future.
i’m telling you now,
they’ll never rebuild that tree.



Save some of the world as we know it for the children.

news out of Africa - they are talking of planting trees east to west, coast to coast to rebuff the encroaching Sahara desert.

strange how we've made God

strange how we've made God
into our image and likeness,
when we were definitely taught
it was the other way around.

tough time

tooling down the road
a wild turkey on the right,
standing where you’d be
if you were thumbing a lift.

i blew past him doing fifty plus.
geeze, he was big. big as a dog.
had he heard of the oil spill, do any of them know?
is that why he was out walking? was he stunned?

this is a tough time
appalling, unequaled.
great damage has been done
to the waters, to the life, to the earth.

and we are the caretakers.
oh, what we have we have left for our children,
this legacy we’ve created,
all for pieces of silver.

i thought to continue to write here, to divert attention
away from thoughts of great sadness - disaster.
let me tell you - it isn’t easy, it is sad.
nothing is easy now. so sad.

first squirrel time

out on the back porch
saw the mother squirrel
for the first time this year.
didn’t recognize her, they look the same.

in the center of the back yard
her back to me,
sitting up, chewing something.
i went way around right so as not to disturb.

around the pond,
then saw the frog.
the big one, on a lily pad,
watching me.

i said he was there
to meri on the other side,
who saw the red squirrel,
and went inside to get some nuts.

was soon feeding the squirrel
who i noticed was very pregnant
but stayed one foot near.
remembered us evidently.

both returnees from last year season.
as we fed nuts to the squirrel,
big frog made his noise,
wanting a little attention also.

the frogs use a good calendar

the frogs use a good calendar,
cause right on time they’ve begun.
all last night the big one did a low “earp”
on the average of once every thirty seconds it sung.

at 24 to 36 second intervals
average 30 seconds between each “earp”.
window open, while lying in bed,
three a.m. i was counting it off.

it is temperature with crickets that
determine the number of chirps per minute.
cricket chirps in 14 seconds plus 40
equal the exact temperature in Fahrenheit

with no external ears frogs either hear well
or the subsonic particles of their call travels far.
the nearest other pond is a quarter mile,
and when it rains they come and go a hopping.

number of cricket chirps in 8 seconds
plus 3 determine temperature in Celsius,and that's it.
frog croaks per minute change with temperature, however,
Celsius or Fahrenheit formulas can't determine jack shit.

at times i wonder - Reprise

I've over a thousand poems on line now, a thousand was my goal since I was a kid,
so I'll be slowing the out put now, and will concentrate on some other creative endeavors.

Thanks to everyone who has stopped to read a few and offered support.

Here's something I put on the web Wednesday, October 15, 2008, It's lyrics to a song I wrote in the late 70s, but never did anything with, but have played it for my friends. The words still hold water.

To all, continued best wishes, Jack Sender


at times i wonder how the old boys are doing
and the ladies i met along the way
we had our moments and our pleasures
seems like it was just the other day

there were some good times that i thought were never ending
sometimes i think just like a child
they say the nights are colder when you’re older
i guess we’ll find out in just a while

take good care of your self you’re a lot like me
take good care of yourself you’ve been good company
and when i thought it wouldn’t end
there’s nothing now like there was then

once in a while when a cold wind is blowing
i’ll ride off on some memory
i may visit you when you're sleeping
don’t mind it’s just a fantasy

the gears of time are always shifting
there’s nights i wake in dreams so real
like the tide i keep on drifting
just telling you now so you know how i feel

take good care of yourself you’re a lot like me
take good care of yourself you’ve been like family
if my life was a book too torn to mend
i’d flip back to see how it would end
and if i never see your face again
here’s wishing you only good luck 'til the end

THIS IS BIG POND

What d’ya got?

Read ‘em an weep,
four frogs up, partner.

Tell M. to get inside.
‘N somebody git the sheriff,
tell’m they’ve holed up in da pond yonder.

I seen that big’en before,

Big frog looks like an outlaw.
A renegade.
Holding steady, hands set to draw.
Easy – easy – keep your hands where I can see ‘em mister.

Tell M. to get inside.

Ah, I did already.

Tell her again.

Hell, look at that, all four sit hunched like gunmen.

And women!

Women?

Hell yes. They don’t hold no count to who’s what’s men and who’s what’s women
cept’n during courtin’, then all bets off!

look - They all dress the same.

It’s a gang.

murmer, murmur, murmur.

The medium aren’t as threatening, and the widdle widdle
tiny one is . . . well, cute.

Back in the house, M.

Earp!
Last night I heard ‘ that big one
was callin’ Wyatt out, all night.
Earp!

quick, Wilbur. what month do you have?

eh. Month is May.

May?

S’ what I said.

Was just repeating . . . May ? . . .
We gots us a month and a half a’fore a courtin’s over.

appears they’re a fixin’ fer a hullabaloo!

anyone ever call you Sherlock!

To be convoluted. . .

a rural ohio spin

like slippin’ into old shoes,
i know the feeling, know the place;
for sure a different pace
in the spin of the entire human race.

take this sunny weekend afternoon, for instance –
a drive, only two cars, me and another
out there in the wide open rolling way-back.
window down, country wind in my hair,
and this guy's ahead of me.

i tell ya, out there is where you find
those who drive like . . .
like penguins waltz.
hang on, baby, it is the Nutcracker.

for as speed marked fifty-five,
plain as day on the sun lit sign,
the guy in front of me thinks thirty-five is doin’ fine.
that’s what i was talking about - a real Nutcracker.

umpteen miles later, we came finally
to a welcome v in the road,
thank god and pumpkins he goes the other way.
adios and Umgawa, may the force be with you Farmer Who.

oh, and road sign now says reduce speed to thirty-five.
ok then, i’m used to it, been warmed up doing that
for quite a while now; only now
there’s another guy in front of me, a new one.
he is doing twenty, i kid you not.
evidently thinks that’s plenty.
sakes alive. stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

divert him, that’s my wish.
someone please - throw him a fish.
just pass him by and lob one out the window.
when he sees it bounce on the road
i know he’ll stop and go for it,
at least for a Smell Check -
that's what critters do.

this reality

this reality
as i see it
is ours
to gently mold.

each piece
a part of the whole.
remember to walk easy
as our lives develop.

you and i decode
the day,
whether wet
or cold

or ray of sun,
softly caressing our cheek
and behold -
the whole human race

taking parts
like flower petals
unfolding to become,
as wishes truly are our horses.

misdirected

I.

the seasons are variable.
don’t know if it is warmer before colder,
or colder before hotter.
close the window anyway.

hah, and you think this is a diary?
it is: of disinformation and the like;
with possibility to forecast severe weather, predict
elections and ball scores. still working on horse race results.

wait a minute, the window sticks.
i know it is the weather;
any weather will do, or won’t
– as in: window won’t open.

II.

the aggregate outlook remains unpredictable,
as churning beach sand under pounding waves,
turning clouds belly up, masking out the stars.
so dark now i have to count on my fingers.

III.

hah, and you think this is a dairy; nearly so.
we drive by a field with sheep each day
where the new ones are a plenty now.
we saw a mother lick off a tiny lamb just arrived.

good for the farmers and the 4H club.
they still have a hand on the soil, thank goodness.
rains are good for them
in reasonable measure.

IV.

you think maybe I just pull these poems out of a box
ha – a thousand times ha!
i grind this stuff out
the way someone grinds bones

okay, so i don’t know who grinds bones
but i’m sure where there’s money to be made
someone is doing it. so in warning:
watch your bones.

going, going

while taking the whistling graffiti marked train
the grey way across town, clack clack,
the exasperated bald headed man ten rows ahead angrily barks,
i hear every word of his cell phone conversation.

then from someone beyond,
through the door open to the train car behind,
paint peeling blaring terrible mechanical music
the kind of Steven King’s mad amusement park

got my attention;
redirected it inward, whir, clack, clack,
recalling bygone days when civil people
respected others space and tranquility.

what am i telling you for?
you don’t appear unaware to me,
you must have a modicom of sensitivity
hell, you’re even reading poetry.

robins - a lesson

I.

May isn’t easy.
not for all
as i saw
from the kitchen window.

chill wind blew as
wet slicked mother and father robin
work diligently in hard late afternoon rain
taking turns, to and from

the partially sheltered nest
to keep the kids protected,
parents fly off in turn, and then return.
dad just gave a worm to the young .

i watched as it
grew darker and cooler.
the rains slackened,
the robins didn’t.

II.

i would guess the two birds met recently.
i have no idea when or where.
maybe they were having a drink somewhere
or pulling on opposite ends of the same worm

they aren’t related, though maybe with robins it
doesn’t matter. genetically they aren't going anywhere.
from their dedication to each other
you would think they are star crossed lovers.

they have no religious ceremony, in fact,
no known religion, art or music.
only small nothings to each other,
and the humming of the earth.

no games or TV, can’t read. their apparent entertainment
is activity. seeing what is around, and the work they do.
they are here for the complete apparent purpose of
finding food and caring for their young.

salt and bar - my song

mr. safety town i am
but let her drive anyway,
and put my arm out for additional signal.
it rained well this May morn.

contractors said it must be done to code ,
electrical outlets every 2 ½ feet,
enough room heating ducts to fry bacon
cooling sufficient for a polar bear circus.

notes on life start with a B flat.
my times and observations,
write that down, some are joys
and, yes, aggravations. stay with me.

reviewing a few of my league deep of poems,
(that’s six feet in terms of water depth)
surprised myself, there are more than i recall
but the stuff is me, and i like water by the way.

make a note: sometime when i was a kid
i told myself i’d write a thousand,
figured it’d be about the number and it is.
so if the kid was a wiz – well, what the hell happened?

then the cell phone rings and they’re telling me
i win free digital hook up that is going to be required by law,
and M. is telling me to hang up cause it's costing money
on the cell phone; but they said we won something.

i guess i shouldn't trust telephoning strangers.
did they have my number
or was it a just lucky chance call that they got to me?
where was i? about here, i’d say:

you can find pieces and make more
but a thousand poems is a fair guess
at the total number, more or less,
overall, i did my best, so did i pass the test?

note: i like the funny
always have
and the running like the river ones
makes me glad. oh, there’s water again.

i thank my mom and dad for not stoppin’ me,
and all the blood generations for centuries down;
and if i had another choice i think i might’a
been a red nose, funny hair, big shoes clown.

oh pshaw not really, forget the clown thing.
that didn’t last long.
to paraphrase my friend old Lonesome -
what i say you better divide by two.

and whatever time you put into reading this
is your business, i think mostly monkey business,
but i’m grateful and other things , etc. etc.
okay, now let’s go sip something refreshing

say, did i ever tell you
you remind me . . .
oh, never mind. M. would say hang up now
cause it could cost us both money.

age of technology

could get a new TV
sit for hours
take popcorn showers,
go dizzy spinning channels.

or in this era of inquisitive technology
forget about watching TV
go about my day
and let the box view me.

may and it's cold out.

may and it’s cold out.
winds and stormy rains i expect,
but the lawn and the flowers and the frogs
. . . waiting for the warm, so are we. we are.

yeah, they’’re years like this.
mark this down, one o ‘em;
not as what we want; nothing we’ll remember fondly.
don't plant til end of may is what they say.

so i drove her to the store.
waiting at the red light, waitin’.
they won’t turn on red.
i wait three lights to get on with it.

in the parking lot see phil,
tell her go on i’ll be in a minute.
caught up with phil, we talked, yeah;
good to see the old man.

heard about neighbors from back then,,
jus' caught up sayin’ nothing.
n ‘our heads we ‘valuate, and it’s'all fine.
old guys saying hi.

so, we went to the store
and we went home.
still cold.
saw Phil.

the all new plan

whatever it is,my wife finds anything out of line,
anything at all, she’ll be pissed
doesn’t matter what it is.
hope there’s nothing i’ve missed.

i’ve got to anticipate, that means
clean up after myself, not make a mess
and keep her kissed . . . well, at least amused.
no one gets a free ride round here,

not even the frogs. not these days,
and make them damn robins pay
for all the worms they’re taking;
those dirty dirt peckers.

and i’m turning myself a new leaf, sure enough,
starting first thing tomorrow if i can,
well, tomorrow afternoon at the latest,
you can bank on it, cause that’s the plan.

so you may not recognize me,
cause i’ll be the one all the time head down an working, an I’m not
jerking you around, that’s for certain, well, that is the plan.
i’m the new man til they pull the final curtain, practically.
wa ya'think?

pilgrims cry

was a file
kept with my others.
title looked intriguing,
opened it,

nothing inside,
only a title.
i thought it would grow
from that small beginning

it didn’t; so what does that tell me?
writing beginnings can sit for a long time
unlike buds in spring or leaves in the fall that let go.
i made a sandwich to stall and consider.

had a model of the mayflower when i was a kid,
from the bar in a restaurant my folks took me to.
don’t remember ever playing with that ship
but i had it for a while, or at least i think i did.

now, pilgrims,
you're not usually thought about in May,
you are a story, seems from forever so long ago,
and should be remembered more, 's what i say.

you were before trains, TV, traffic,and airplanes,
when our country was land full of trees,
a lot of rolling earth, Indians and lightening bugs,
and many down sloping clean, fresh running streams.

good night kisses and motherly hugs,
that’s how it was done. now don’t you cry, pilgrims,
you did yours starting out and getting us here. thanks
from the generations that followed in the Mayflower's wake.

there’s still trouble with religion, war, and government,
the same old woes do go on; and like others in their time,
you know, we too did both our job and made a bit of mess.
patching, between accomplishments, an living with the stress.

guy problems

icebergs are melting,
great globs of trash are floating in the oceans,
the universe is expanding or shrinking ;
scientists have conflicting notions.

is it hotter
or colder,
what’s going on;
and what about the economy?

more than i can handle sometimes.
though i can squeak by knowing two things:
is what i have on okay?
and, what’s for dinner?

i thought chili peppers were hot

i thought chili peppers were hot,
that was the story, just hot.
then i ate a few,
okay, maybe more than a thousand.

not all at once, you know,
only if you add them up. a lot of them
in my lifetime, you see;
and what i got was an understanding

and an appreciation
for peppers in general.
sounds like a civil war commander
General Pepper,

and i did work for an old Pepper too.
Bill, he was from Kentucky.
Waddy, Kentucky to be exact.
How would i possibly remember that;

except that he wrote a song and
wanted me to help make it a hit, no kidding.
he called it - Move your Body to the Waddy.
and i thought i was making this up.

well, maybe with the Internet
and who know what all,
Bills words will live long, on into dark nights,
down rolling hills and by bushes where animals call;

but i swear it is true as clear water
gushing out of a mountain stream;
tasteless yet refreshing,
but no way a hit, you know what i mean?

all this takes us back to peppers
or at least me, where i began, it does.
i’ll sprinkle red hot ones on my food
cause it gives my mouth that happy buzz.

they were eating pepper five thousand years ago
in the Americas, that’s a fact;
and they stayed cause they are good,
but i don’t have to tell you that.

come on Bill, let’s make a song of it,
for the mountains and the trees and the birds
and the new people who came over and started
this up, along with and especially for, the Indians.

on Pasquali's family business

daughter.
good cooking daughter
satisfied to be there,
smiles when she sees us,
serves us well and plenty.

son.
son seems content in his labor
finding his own self,
following his father’s way;
stays on task throughout the day.

husband.
Pasquali is the quintessential good guy,
out there, friendly and happy,
he’ll stop and talk;
sits down with us if it’s slow.

wife.
don’t rush to pay if you see her,
now here’s the real score,
when old wifey takes the cash
it always costs a little more.

as a measure of time

as a measure of time,
tables - use old wood to build them,
or poems that i scratch out;
the tables aren’t much.

just made a small one
to hold my keyboard nicely,
the computer keyboard,
not the piano.

the piano sits well enough already
on the floor in the other room
where it ought to be,
like you, like me,

in place where we ought to be.
can i measure time building tables,
make a clock of it? there are pictures
to paint, engravings to do, and writing, eh.

all comes from within like breathing country air
and i let it out as it happens.
need i direct it more, control
and make a neat scene

or continue to write poems at random,
then build something,
paint something,
read or write when it happens?

at least, at most,
i am happy about it,
like life in the city
and many people to talk with;

what they do is their affair.
i keep head down with what i do,
although she has mentioned that
we don’t need another table.

rising early in the morning
in stillness, alone,
far trains passing
clocks ticking, tripping silence.

folly of spring

I
here i am, there are no geese.
must i go looking
in the usual places
where they congregate,

i don’t think so;
they can wait
and better they do,
a lesson for them all.

they know only their own reflection in the lake.
if they can recall other than their own image,
let them vent their wings and
see if they can find me.

a walk on the pier will show me many fish,
occasional mouth open bobbers and long swelling floaters,
but i don’t want to encounter any geese;
not that way, not today, not yet anyway.


II
wretched clean up
after a winter of winds blowing sticks,
knocking things about and new spring growing,
making a mess that we will reassemble into order;

it has to be done,
our part of the bargain
for being people living in this community.
have you noticed, the lucky nonliving don’t do shit.

they lie still in the recently frozen soil
watch the stars, wait for visitors,
or walkabout, return to favorite haunts in cover of darkness
or in thin air, thinking thoughts they didn’t know they could in life.

so i gave a kid relative of a neighbor
five bucks to cut our long front lawn.
when he finished tipped him a dollar for immediate service.
his two minutes would take forty-five from my life.

the kid is a tall, well built,long hair seventeen.
at that age i could have sliced weeds and then run the gauntlet,
now a wobbly sixty-five, can use the help
and kids always need money. good for both of us.

earlier i asked the school teacher next door how much
should i offer the lad to mow, he said five or ten.
this neighbor cuts it for us for free when we’re away.
teaches fifth grade math but not economics.


III
Frank the bluegill is gone from our pond
should i cast along the bottom with a net
dragging for skeletal remnants, traces
or did an invader, man or egret, go fishing.

no frogs yet, not this first of May.
they’ll come home in due time,
when it’s warm, humid, still and bugs are about.
scratch that last; there is one out there barking now.


IV
old friend LeeH. wrote to tell me of poet Wallace Stevens;
said my stuff was reminiscent. thought he joked
until i kept reading; it's a stretch, but now with a thousand
poems down i learn something new. that’s how life goes,

especially when you tire
of your own reflection in the water
and then pick your head up and look around.
there are nearly seven billion of us in this pond.

reading sign

i need go over again,
searching carefully each clue
as to where is up
for me, for you, it keeps changing

there’s been faint trace
like a bird puff gone to wind,
aloft - the shifting of the old tree.
ground level - wind licking long strokes in lawns

stuff is old, i see it around me
don’t let me kid myself
the wind is cold by night
as day old dinner left lying on the shelf

rampant speculation leads to inaccuracies
following closely pit padding heels of worry
abandoning hurry, do softly tread,
leave no space, show nor dread.

as we race handle our duties,
scurrying about have no doubt,
in the end, as my mother said,
kid, everything always works out

the egret has landed

more a to a less play the drums tap tap
in my head riding, some.
last time i opened the window
i didn’t know it was the last time

if people dressed better
would they treat us better?
on the other hand
they treat us like cattle, so dress for it

saw a disheveled motorcycle man attired for a sleepover
had on a t-shirt with a decal picture of a motorcycle on it
give him a country name
call him Harley Woodpecker

hug the cushion
to your chest
in the event of evacuation
i’d call that an event all right

don’t mind
much of anything
words people say
or what aggravates

out the window
looked like two fat puffy bunnies
parked on the tarmac
call them big planes in their team colors

lock tray tables down in their
full upright position, why is that?
will it rattle, fall and break on takeoff?
hug the seat cushion to your chest

in the event of an evacuation
or if in need of a cuddle, not while plane is in motion,
or they’ll want to know why you’re taking their plane apart
don’t forget, do not forget this is a non smoking flight, don’t forget

woke up at eleven pm last night your time
been flying, well, riding mostly
go ahead tell me it’s a non smoking flight
nearly forgot, thought i'd quit or something

hurry driver
take me home so i can find the Internet is down
cause a ten cent piece of plastic broke when they
thought they reconnected the stuff no problem

throw out that dot of plastic
get it in the ocean
so it floats with the rest of it
and won’t ever be lonely again

ordinary coffee 2

between time has begun in earnest,
sliding along a step at a time in this land
where coffee is not only a drug
it is the ritual, deeply set

saw Alberto a final time
had coffee, bid our goodbyes.
neither here nor beyond, i’m in prep time now,
thinking the way

then near home, woodworker Franco
tells me he’s moving from his shop,
saddened. his friends, already
thinking of his friends

twenty-five years in this place,
Franco has ripened and aged in this studio
of worn brick fabricated in the late middle ages.
he knows these ancient walls, having laughed and cried here

and we all have our paths,
the way for one is never
easy as it may appear to others.
expect and accept surprises

on the way keep your head up,
be alert through change, though fear it not.
remember - it is always easier to ride the horse
in the direction that it is going.

ordinary coffee

ordinary coffee and a roll with apple
at the bar unchanged for years
dark haired daughter works Monday
she knows our routine

M. went along this regular
laundry day for Bill and i.
now Luciano will be closing his place
moving to Thailand the end of the month

chef Bill will spend his 43rd year in Roma
then is on his way
to live with his brother in Atlanta,
we’ll return in the fall, that’s the plan

yesterday it was Chinese food
with Maria, Bruna and Luciana,
a Trastevere summery Sunday
we bid our goodbyes

quickly all happens,
so sudden to depart
our friendship. our adventure
oh, melancholy heart

more or lessing now

this whole thing is amazing
there’s seven billion of us
mostly the same
one head and the other parts
we put words together
that’s one way it starts

then what i come up with
is not all that unique
we’re in this together
that’s what i think

my poems are like yours
when you take ‘em apart
they’re all from the brain
run by the heart

so a salute to us is okay
from one and for all
give it your best,
have a nice day

saturday first thing

Saturday first thing
the crack of eight, remember that,
it's the hour to ransack Rome,
cause Romans sleep in the mornings

from our window above i observe a Bangladeshi
load the large wheeled wooden hand cart
for Campo dei Fiori venders Marco and Isa,
the guy needs the work, and they’re older now

we go out and down the alley way,
find Corado working alone at
Rosaria’s store, talk a bit.
he wants to see America some day

then to the laundry that still isn’t open
a half hour past the opening time written on the door.
after fifteen minutes of staring at the sign
we drag our cart to the Laundromat a few streets over

Crazy Mario is working, usually i go on Monday
with Bill the chef, when Luciano works there,
forever grumpy and dreaming aloud
of Thailand beaches, warm weather and low prices

our chores finished, we leave Roma by car to discover
it’s the day, it’s the hour, it’s what every Disneyland in
the world wants to be, charming as Sacrafano’s
medieval village center, rock village on a hill

now freshly green, deep springtime in the air
we have a coffee and walk around.
then to Alberto’s delightful home in the wild,
for lunch, half Calabrese cuisine,

half plain out of this world
Albie’s an artist, even when he cooks.
i’d tell you more but the page is nearly full,
must save room for desert.

road again

some road cops on the cruise
with nothing to do get a kick
driving fast and laying on the siren
they passed us like a bat out of hell

stopped for lunch at a mom and pa diner
in an atomic particle of a town.
out front a parking space for two was open
‘til that guy in front of me pulls into it

goes right in the middle
takes it all, he does
not thinking of me or you,
that’s how Italbillys do

during, before and after pasta,
vegetables, warm pie and coffee, i sort
piles of notes from my pockets
x ‘em out when they’re done, i do

at home i keep one of the old cigar boxes dad used
little notes and numbers
written all over it
a boy has to learn somewhere

the Giant Cyclops had it right
tell the villagers to leave some sheep
tied up by the cave at the bottom of the hill
or there’s going to be trouble, problem solved

lunch was home cooked good
made new friends
learned the river was down,
not rushing like years before

a local truck, vegetables in the back
parked outside
after lunch we gandered,
chatted, got fruit, we did

the road home, windows up against the chill,
all the way we could smell the strawberries
nestled in the trunk of the car.
now that’s a poem, partner

i smile satisfied

crossing traffic
with bullfighter ease
having done it before
it’s a breeze

turning left
then I squeeze
across the lane
step, step

like a dance
kind of nifty
Hey - that SOB
almost hit me

baby down the well

baby down the well,
what the hell?
half a world away people talk
like it’s going on next door

next thing the playoff games
shadowed out by Dancing with the Stars,
you need some more distraction,
we’ve got robots going to Mars

so many i don't know

been through so many books
don’t know what all i’ve read,
who wrote them
or what they all said

while some of it took,
seems the most of it, i dread,
is floating here somewhere,
swirling downstream in my head

since the colosseum

in Roma the paper trail
dreadful long, runs deep,
employment for a relative,
nothing to do with efficiency

if they’re selling chances
don’t bet against it,
the outcome is fixed in stone,
that’s how it goes

Roma has the reputation
to convolute everything,
and lives up to it
every imaginable way

out of Roma ahead of the volcano

set a land speed record
on an intercity bus to the termini
the driver was in a hurry
to smoke or pee or call mama on his break

at the train station
oh the humanity
European victims of the volcano cloud
hurrying in, to find a way out

training south we stopped at Formia
a knowledgeable passenger said we’d be stopped a few minutes
i was three seconds from stepping off for a walk outside
as the door snapped closed and the train took off

a guy who saw it all
said it was close to disaster for me
and nearly smiled
when he said it

through Naples we passed
a dozen twenty story
apartment buildings with balconies
on all sides, all the way down

in Sapri stayed at a downtown hotel
a small park away from the sea
the racket was traffic and breaking waves of humanity
it was a fine afternoon

that evening at a local bar
i had a beer, M. had a glass of wine
served by the youngest bartender in Europe
my shoes are older than him

crashing waves
whish of the trees
laughing people
between us and the sea

so the volcano puffs
airports close
we had enough
soon we’re heading home

fat mouse sleeping

fat mouse sleeping
is how we travel usually,
but not this bus, we let the good one go,
and took one with the square wheels

and the driver who that very morning
dropped off his mother,
three sisters and fiancee
at the nut house

his grin as he drove reminded me of the odd man,
a regular at a lunch counter in San Francisco,
with the black rubber toupee that clung to his head
like a sleeping alligator, i shuddered

and looked over to M. to see how she rode,
one hand on the saddle horn like a broncobuster
grinning without hanging on
and knew she was fearless

fat mouse sleeping
is where i wanna be
but not on this bus
the one with square wheels

the world's most expensive carpet

6.2 million dollars, the world’s most expensive carpet
sold, how about that and what do you know,
my carpet is for sale right now
for 6.3 million, the one by the door

put that in the Guinness record book
as the highest price asked for a carpet
call the queen or someone
Paris Hilton or Sharon Stone maybe

i’ll put a sign on the back of my pickup truck
and drive down to the Pied Piper
the local ice cream place and celebrate
i’ll buy – they’ll probably only get small cones

wait – let me think about this,
i won’t need a shot of botox will i?
couldn’t they use an old picture of me
or one of Pierce Brosnan and say it’s me?

maybe i’d better just drink
my morning coffee and think about it,
yeah, i do want to be reasonable,
yeah, that’s me, good old Mr. Reasonable

so life is but a dream

so life is but a dream,
here’s one to sleep on,
we rocket back in time, she and i

take our journey in a flash,
contract it into a night
to see some high points

spend two days at that place
high above the beach in Zijuatenejo
have a nice dinner under stars

two days in the Piute mountains
our cabin , old friends dropping by
the wood stove, where it all began

two days on the boat in Sausalito
the cat’s there lying in the sun
what a decade that was

two days with my folks in Ohio
two with yours in Arizona
make those family festive occasions,

two in Hawaii on bicycles and camping
two in Italy on trains, busing, walking,
wine, pasta and pizza of course,

add two in Sonoma on the crazy oats ranch,
a couple of days here, a couple there,
a whirlwind happy couple dream

we rode the long ride
rose and fell with the tide
and iknow, sweetheart, we’d do it again

like gamblers with fortune smiling
we had the cards and the stars in our favor
someone’s watching over us

packed for business

waiting by the stop, standing there
saw one aged, elbow high on M.
looked shorter, had tall hair,
the bus arrived, all boarded

thirty minutes later i tried to call M.
to let her know i was still on the bus
and that i was thinking of her,
sadly, i found her phone was off

she was up there somewhere
in the front of the same bus as me,
stuck and folded in the pile of humanity,
excommunicato

out the widow i saw at a glance a guy walking
head down thinking hard hands in the pocket of his pants,
nearly walked in front of the bus
where the hell was his wife?!

SRO, never seats enough
designed in Italy for beauty,
never function, you want to ride,
you need a ticket and gumption

and we made the run
had some fun
got stuff done
it’s never easy

doing what we can
as woman and man,
plus a crowd of others,
world sisters and brothers

and to you i can say
whether work or play, until it’s done
let it gleam and shine in every way
cause this is your day in the sun

tram this time

riding an underground mortuary
with the undead, where the noise of screeching
is paralyzing, the cost of grease must have
rocketed on the wings of the price of oil

eight stops and one-half migraine later
above ground, near empty ears
vibrate from a train passing
in the other direction

at last we had finally made it
to Hell’s End
to wait for a bus, it was sunny
my jacket now too heavy

thirty minutes later the bus arrived
when all boarded
the driver left
for a 15 minute break

foreigners aboard
heading for the office of immigration
to redo papers and fingerprints in case they changed
all for the pleasure of remaining in Italy

with the bus seemingly packed
at the first stop
we topped off, packed again
just to be sure it was filled to capacity

now my jacket acted like a heat blanket
felt a draft of cool air,
must have been a mistake
or the breath of an evil spirit

at the new office
200 people in a space for fifty
18 windows do business,
three were open

we had twenty minutes
window close at 1130, then reopen after lunch at 330
but we made it in time to hear
we should come back in the fall

seems we were here just a century ago
when we got back in the subway
zipping the way they say takes time
off a test-tube rat’s life

then near the termini
the happy people, 2
sat down for Indian Fast Food,
ate lunch and swallowed defeat

the elevator

across the street
workers were taking down letters
of the store name - Rinascimento
large metal script going one at a time

right into the trash
the name of the store could be read
on the unpainted wall
where for years the letters had hung

only O remained,
i was thinking
how i could use it
before it went down the drain into history forever

on my way into a nearby building,
a guy by the door was playing a violin so badly
he should offer people coins from his cup
for the aggravation he caused all too eagerly

i barely squeezed into the elevator
as the door closed it took off shaking chains,
one of those old rattling jobs
that sounded like Jacob Marley’s ghost

the little barred box we were in
was a packed rocket ascending,
as i noticed over the elevator door
900 kg 12 persons, a warning

i saw it too late for us,
we were locked down in a cage of the type
used to load wild animals
aboard a ship in Borneo in ancient times

there were too many in here,
couldn’t count them all,
that large one counts for two
had to start over three times

carry the four, 900 kilos divided into 12 people
is how much? nine into 12,
two zeros left
I’ll use them later,

reminded me of the letter O
i left behind,
must do the math quickly
or ring the bell and run

it’s about an eight floor building
high enough if it goes down fast,
i suppose there is a basement,
count that as another floor to drop

i broke out in a sweat
as the box quit shaking
and hung there
having arrived at some floor

didn’t matter where,
the door opened everyone bailed,
headed for the stair
before we all got impaled

your invitation

to walk in the woods
birds over head, rolling clouds in the blue
by roads end, long grass and sticks,
kick around shall we, with family and friends

some sunny afternoon time together,
stretch into evening purple shadows
bring food and drink to share
we’ll make a warm fire

take along your musical instrument
for sweet sounds, we’ll sing along
remember a soft blanket to sit on
goodwill will ring in our voices

when you like, old friend
whenever we can
let’s make it happen,
consider this a personal invitation

review

each day i note in quick review
stories true or fabricated
nothing untoward in what i do
brief impressions are here related

passing trains inside our head
haul events that we recall
piled higher than our daily bread
no way can we digest it all

lived in a ghost town

lived two years in a ghost town,
was a small graveyard
and a few cabins
there on the mountain

four or five folks lived within a few miles
a few more came on weekends
the judge married us there
amid a gathering of family and friends

we lived an hour from the nearest town,
our post office box,
traffic, a store or two
and people in general

electricity, none to speak of,
running water was a stream
and our well we pumped by hand
on a log tripod with wooden spool and rope

we had a battery powered radio
the scary programs on CBS mystery theater
was our nine p.m. entertainment
with a fire in the pot belly stove

and wind in the trees,
on moonless nights
after a scary show i’d accompany her
to the outhouse

once a park bear
that got too used to handouts
was dumped off in our part
and showed up on our porch

he got his nose
in some white lime powder
then stood on our porch on his hind legs
and left his powdery white nose print on our screen door

lucky for me he went away when i yelled at him
and he didn’t step through the screen into the kitchen
or it would have been suddenly
very crowded in there

stories and good times
we had a lot of them
our time in the woods
makes me smile thinking

The Internet Alerts Us

my morning coffee ritual
in our dark somber apartment in Rome
was speed jolt interrupted as
M. read aloud the full story

direct from the Internet
of the alarm caused by a guy
who smoked in the first class restroom
aboard a plane flying to Denver

when asked by security what he was doing
because they had smelled smoke in the bathroom,
he jokingly said he was lighting his shoes on fire.
they slammed him in his seat and cuffed him

causing two scrambled fierce military jets to accompany
the airliner while landing or, if need be, shoot it down.
bringing to mind actor and later President Ronald Reagan
who once said, “Lucky Strike means fine tobacco.”

as i quietly sipped my coffee in the far away zone
and thanked my lucky stars the Internet keeps us
informed and alert to the goings on
in restrooms high over Denver and other places

then went back
to finish watching
a six year old prodigy
play the piano in China

been on the road

been on the road and made it
back to Rome from away
quite a week it was.
label us vacationed to the hilt.

she drove the lion share, has the stuff
to persist, fight traffic and hold the gate.
now back, unpacked, thank goodness,
tomorrow we recuperate

can't see it

i can’t see it as a whole
not as well as you.
yes, i write this everyday,
from the middle where it’s spinning fast

i don’t see it as others do,
for it pops in pieces in front of you
in carefree digestible bits.
you have an idea how it goes

better to look from afar,
analyze the pieces.
and then tell me what happened
when it’s over

another life

in another life,
i’m pretty sure
i wasn’t king or queen
or dog or cat

i think i was a dandelion,
and we’d just grow
with nothing to know,
tens of thousands of us

turning our heads
to honor the light of the sun
we sang together
a lot of songs

never had words to learn
we’d just turn
to the sun and knew the music,
we were like one

water spray

the water spray
sky is gray
this early April day

and we rise for the occasion
content being here,
having been bestowed this reward

approximations

Italian national TV news at seven
is an approximation of the starting time,
could be three or four minutes later,
it all depends,
so don't set your clock by it

lines down the middle of streets in Roma
also are approximations,
indications for vehicles
that give a general idea where to drive,
you better bet your life on it

of the sea

the music of continuous waves
beat cleanses my soul
repeatedly bringing dreams,
stir turning clear waters

until fragile yellow
washes dawn silver sea,
sky grows light blue
and new gold day begins

somewhere, down Italy
to here by car or train
have returned to dream, digest and breathe
this thing again

from the terrace
over sounding waters
star light calls, i tell them
let’s go, take me

until that time comes
i’ll dream and wait,
these waves in my heart
have a place for me

somewhere out of time
a poets corner of many words
beyond the angle of night
a deep universe in order

i live near the sea
no matter where home
appears to be
or where rest my bones

in high wind
the long blue and fish
is where i begin,
my deepest wish

by the snap of sail,
pull of the tide
when you tell the tale
know there i hide

for i am of the sea
through not by address
a longing inside called water
calls to me more often than less

Antonio Salvatore

on the little electric bus
i sat next to a fellow with a case
and a bandaged right hand
we talked, immediately got along well

a very interesting guy
with a home in the Albino hills outside of Rome
a boat he loves in Sardegna
i told him we lived ten years on a boat
in Sausalito, on San Francisco bay

he’s doing a concert in San Fran April 24
he’s Antonio Salvatore a world class violinist
always first violinist for Ennio Morricone,
travels the world, many awards to his credit

we talked until my stop ended our chat
i’m sorry i didn’t have a card to give him,
an immediate acquaintance lost in fleeting encounter,
best wishes, Antonio

pajamas

my wife bought me pajamas
some wives do that you know
these i’ve had for a decade
and don’t like them, never did

they look like Polish clown pants
ok, so i’m of Polish blood
and i do clown around a bit
so . . .
. . . . hey, wait a minute
. . . . . cancel cancel
. . . they’re really not that bad

bad rainbow

my umbrella worked
wore it low like a hat
had a stick on it to hold on to,
was psychedelic in nature

the color was majorly blue, dark
ominous, but nice handle,
you had to own one like it
to understand

alone at the wooden table
a glass away from foul weather
i peer out disheartened,
where did my lousy umbrella go?

self satisfied

self satisfied are you?
i need your attention,
this is about you

when you feel you know,
when you have finally learned
that you’re not as smart
as you think you are

that very point is equivalent
to dawn in you,
the breaking open of daylight’s first rays,
the new beginning

don’t think about the afternoon
or days end as yet,
you still have a long way to go
until lunch time

Giancarlino Benedetti Corcos

hats off to Giancarlino
he did the floor tiles for a bar on the corner
this is a step for his ever changing face
in the art bowl

as he moves on in art
making a mess
turning in the tide
doing his part

while nibbling on the money bone
he’s having fun
and i respect him for that,
that and being a good person is what it’s all about

It’s what you figure out
and convey in your work
that will let everyone know
you are really a writer.

another space between

another space between
on a bus way out again,
way up denial, 27 march,
one month into chronic birthday digestion

make a note
sound waves, light waves, ocean waves
slow waves, fast waves, wet waves
more stuff you don’t have to Google

on the bus with folks from Nigeria
the six year old kid was quiet and observant
obviously not a TV junky, make a note -
dots of sun light from a board with holes - do it

not thinking of you, like the two end to end
parking spaces open and a one car pulls in the middle
and essentially takes two
he was not thinking of you either

deep up denial again, but it’s all true
i could tell we were far out of the city
when we saw a guy leading two camels,
at least they were on the sidewalk

sometime notes i make on the bus
can’t be deciphered because of the jiggle
but i know what i saw
about the camels i mean, i do so verify

note: when Italians count on their fingers
unlike America where one is the index finger
here, one is the thumb
just thought i’d let you know

m. just read a news story online
about a man arrested for trying to revive
a road kill possum
with mouth to mouth resuscitation

then TomC writes to say
he couldn’t digest his cornflakes or something
cause i skipped a day
pshaw! maybe when i was ten

i could have skipped all day.
what i did was lose a day just like
Ray Miland in Lost Weekend, Billy Wilder, 1945,
in which he played an alcoholic

and i just saved you more Googling
maybe Google lost some money then
and/or will make it up
somewhere else

note - if i wrote this in paragraph form
and you printed it, it’d waste money
on ink for big letters and periods
or space there of

city advantage

we saw one of three films featured
by the director Kurosawa
from 1949, in black and white,
free admission for the early show

a two minute walk from home
our neighborhood theater, time was right,
students and old people were there
subtitles in Italian, you can’t have everything

the theater was warm, i held my coat,
the people in the film were hot
sweating, every scene
we could see them beaded, dripping,
mopping their faces to remind us

after two hours it began to rain
just in the film,
still the heat continued for them and us,
but now muggy with rain

for 17 hours that seemed like 2
if you still believe in clocks
then it ended, and they let us leave
just like that

we had endured and
liked it a lot,
that’s what years in Italia can do to you,
so watch yourself

massive paralyzing total transit strike

another
massive paralyzing total transit strike
averted,
canceled at the last moment.

as they run, so we shall ride
into the dark heart of urban chaos

didn’t want to get halfway into
the jaws of hell,
some lonely half-deserted road
left to hike out,

have done that already.
what’s this?

a woman trying to be sixteen
and fifty pounds lighter
boards the bus
in brilliant shiny ultra high spike heels
with dagger toe points like a swordfish
waddling from pole to pole
a performing penguin
with red claws,
dainty as can be

as making notes
i ride deep up denial
longing for looking
on something for always,
or pizza for eating,
just a bite
save me

i can’t help it
or me or you
so don’t ask
i’ll say i never heard of it
just the truth
nothing butt,
take me up denial,
cruise by,
say,is that the Sphinx on your head
or just a stylish new hat?

getting off the bus
i look down to see
a flash of white in front of me
my zipper is half way down
and my shirt is sticking through
about half a foot's worth
like a large white rabbit's ear

as they run, so we shall ride
into the dark heart of urban chaos

graffiti

on a bus ride
that took us
to the other side
of the city

by the University of Rome
a large sign roughly spray painted on a wall
read: spegni i muti, scendi i bance
extinguish the fines, light the banks

8 in my pocket

i carried an 8 in my pocket
cause I heard it would
bring me money,
the next day got 500 euro

cash in my hand
came to me unexpectedly,
i immediately counted it
as coincidence

when the purpose of
carrying an 8 in my pocket
was to bring in money.
what do you think?

should i continue
to carry the number 8
written on a piece of paper
in my pocket?

tell you what,
i have a friend that needs it
i’ll give him an eight
to carry in his pocket

marathon

a storm of choppers
over gatherers at the coliseum
and Piazza Venezia,
the heart of Rome

9:05, a five minute delay for television transmission
then it begins,
the front line twenty
then the ten thousand unfold

balloon carriers, applause, waves,
whistles, cameras, banners,
cheers for the courageous ,
the marathon runners of Rome 2010

on and off again

at each bus stop
the middle door is for exit only
on-getting people have no sense
there are off-going people

although they have done this exchange
a thousand times or more,
it is all new, unveiled to them
as if they’ve never been at the door before

this somehow lead me to think in times like these
when things are tight
for a simple thing like a cup of coffee
some places raise prices

maybe it’s time to cut some slack
readjust and take it easy,
now we ought to step back,
these are new times

consider how we can
get back on track,
new times need new tactics,
for now the old times aren’t coming back

get ready for summer

get ready for summer
when wind blow
stirs crickets,
no one has to train them

like training the foolish
to do something foolish
isn't necessary,
no lessons to be learned

and summer all -
rushes toward us
tumbling, unfolding in leaves,
happens naturally,

the moon shines bright,
nearly white light,
behind racing clouds
over long fields, fences

lakes and lanes,
cities, rooftops
and trees in green
for miles

and kids and dirt
you need them
have to have them
and ice cream trucks

then nights bring
lonesome train whistles
fish jump
practically hanging in the air

thistles rattle
insects snicker
it’s the wind blow itself
that stirs crickets

no doubt about it.
mark that down
lest you forget,
now you know, how it go,

and it do go on
in dew
for you,
and for me, and forever

the string is out

my grandmother
was Polish and spoke English so-so
she used to have the radio on
or grandpa did, as she ironed

she told my mom that she felt bad
for the baseball player called “string”
because she always heard the announcer
say “the string is out”, “the string is out”

this is what announcers said
during the game when it was
a 3 ball, 2 strike full count on a batter,
one pitch remaining for him

my cousins son is in his fifties
his grandfather was my dad’s brother
i knew his grandfather and his great grandfather
also that little old woman who was his

great. great grandmother, oh my . . .
time passes like a soaring bird,
sailing overhead deep,
like a long fly ball heading over the wall

somewhere it’s the bottom of the ninth,
the big game nearing completion,
tap the bat against your shoes,
knock the mud off your cleats

tuck the bill of your hat down to cover the sun,
two out, bases loaded, the full count is on,
one pitch remaining,
the string is out

when it comes down the pipe
go for it,
knock that puppy
over the wall

i am x

i am an x-patriot
living in Roma
in need another letter for this term
not so hopeless, infinite, outcast

something positive,
uplifting, outgoing, optimistic
was thinking this thought
on the way to an appointment

when i realized i had gotten into
the slowest taxi in the free world,
new world, old world,
another planet, any planet

in agonizing minutes Pokey the Driver
had torpedoed my good attitude,
a direct hit into my inner workings
had whipped my mental machinery to jelly

i quivered, i sank, went down
nose first like a rocket pointed to hell.
cross me out, x me out, go ahead x-me good.
i was and am no more, move over, i'll drive


The driver was a nice old man. he just couldn’t push the gas pedal.
Even after I left the cab, usually they’re gone before I can turn my head, he sat there a while before he pulled out into traffic. I was wondering if I was going to have to call a cab for him.

woodbine twines

woodbine twines climb higher
where white fragrant flowers go
one after the other,
we shall follow in our time

franco worked for the flower venders,
a woman or two, maybe three of them
covered head to foot in coats
and scarves and inane chatter

would be partners with who knows,
always changing faces,
girasole toward the sun,
now fond franco hasn’t reappeared

he the simple helper schlepper
down on luck, getting by in fancy time
when he wasn’t drinking and falling down
eye trouble, though money never a factor

not when there is none
comes and goes as he wished, as others wished,
then went home, somewhere south,
i heard the name of the village last year

have forgotten the village but not Franco,
thought he’d return
but winter’s over
and he remains gone as the snow

city life is seasons,
that visit, then change,
while woodbine is curling
life does rearrange

the line

mindless repetition
is not really,
for it takes mind and attention
to repeat exactly

repetition then is practice,
to learn a skill
to do it unerringly,
completion of an action beyond fault

next, alteration
and experimentation
lead to discovery
and invention

artistic expression
is on the path
toward improvement
of an idea

be prepared

on a narrow city street
our large city bus stops
behind another,
two, three, four others

our bus driver
says nothing,
gets out, walks away,
doesn’t look back

we get out and get into the front bus
it goes away
with us aboard
we’ll see where it goes

then on another jammed narrow street
all cars are parallel parked
except the one that’s nose in first
and blocks our buses passage

bus honks, a man comes, waves apologies
and moves his little car
hey, this is Roma, we expect chaos,
receive it routinely, good naturedly, warmly

they must put kryptonite in the water
cause we’re all supermen for being here
and then it dulls us enough
to put up with this mess and love it

the bus moves on past new old stores
apartments, flowers on sills, kitties watching,
new kids playing in the streets, a chained yapping dog,
new old folks walking or talking in small groups

we get out to walk in Trastevere
buy pizza slices and ricotta cheese for later
we’re right below Giacomo’s apartment
i call, he invites us up for coffee

he and Virginia with two other couples
had just finished red pasta and green salad lunch,
desserts on the table, we chat over coffee,
meet new people, a good time for all

you never know where the next step leads
when you take to the streets in Roma.
so when you venture out keep a clear head, stay alert,
and like the boy scout motto - be prepared

in the back of the bus

a pair of rain wash angels,
bone cold hearts worn
skirting desperation
seated in somber silence

poised, pensive,
tightening spirits,
as we bus rush away
from the maddening center

the princess sisters observe nearby
two younger girls, heads together,
soft giggle working in a word puzzle book.
the older sadly perceive fate of the younger

while along this traffic-bogged way
there are no costly cell phone calls for these riders
full of thought with the occasional low murmur,
remain packed fish in a tin silent

we are like globes

we are like globes,
similar to the one we live on
with different regions, aspects

when i see you
perhaps my soviet union territory
is facing your north America

always like that
sometimes turned a bit
yet exposing familiar surfaces

we are similar on the edges
where we overlap,
though, if we were to part

then return after a revolution around the sun
and my Australia faced your South America
we wouldn’t recognize each other

we might not even see each other. so
as a point of contact, as reference, as renewal
show me your china, i’ll show you mine

Giacomo drove

day began with a walk across Ponte Sisto,
where today machinery is tearing up one end.
wore my dark clip-on sunglasses
couldn’t see at all in the sidewalk glare

rain was on then off in bright sun
if there was dog crap on the sidewalks
hope walked me around it
i knew it was there somewhere

felt comfortable with extreme impaired vision
sight is not only seeing, it is sense,
that’s how camel- back wanderers crossed deserts,
how they decided where to set their tents

my friends arrived quickly as i did,
first son, Alex, glad
to see me, and i him
then a car came - Giacomo his dad, tall, thin

aging son of a Grand Prix driver, mother set speed
records on motorcycle, being first moves his blood.
you have to be crazy to ride when Giacamo's in a hurry
i rode in the front passenger seat

we launched into a fresh rain challenge
Alex had the seat in back
Giacomo drove us to parts of Roma unknown
near the airport, near the river

far, and turning fast enough to make me shiver,
into the land of warehouses and such, we picked up insulation
enough to pack the car to the ceiling leaving no room for us,
then we got in anyway, and sped away

soaring through heavy traffic, now rain again,
a red light blinked while a dash alarm sound every few minutes
i asked unconcerned Giacomo what it was
he said it signaled something, and kept going

and on we went, a couple of near misses
i heard groans or whimpers in the back seat from Alex,
Giacomo rolled down the window a few times
giving instructions and suggestions to other drivers

he kept driving hard
in the rain
in heavy traffic
in the name of glory

we must have made it
cause i wrote this,
ready to go again – anytime.
with my friend Giacomo