yo, you

to you, see
so near, so far
by bus, by car

i'm kidding you
it's always bus

to market, trionfale
mark that down and take a list
or only have a few things in mind
going there. it's what i can hold
a few thing in my mind

if you look at a map
but never mind, no one does
unless you're driving, or walking
not bus riding. need only
look for the sign, at the sign
on a pole, waiting for you to look at it

all days, even eclipse ones
that comes every hundred years
like we're in today...
what can i say; but wait
there'll be another,
you know how it goes.

comes and goes
heaven knows
the little secrets the sun lets out
every now and then
when it feels right.
my my, my my.
say it - my, my, my
let the sunshine.

Bond be

the film-making lights remain,
by the river, and a big yellow crane,
not the bird kind, the metal type.
Rain'll be here Sunday, so will Bond be.

i bought an ice cream cone today,
saw the evidence by the river.
it's only a block away. had to look
because people were crowding around.

tonight at ten they'll be shooting
and a scooting. i'll be in bed,
listening to the helicopter, rooting
for the guy in the silver aston-martin.

yell at a dog

yell at a dog
it'll feel bad...look sad
and not remember
what he did wrong

in winter chill

in winter chill
14 youngsters
got off the city bus
orderly, quietly

the wee bundled
bunched together
like tiny sheep
so very well behaved

inside we old
smiled and chuckled
from warmth the sight
gave to our heart

the guys on the street

tired gino didn't sleep well
wears jeans with holes and red patches,
and new blonde leather desert boots,
looking forward to lunch, he is

tells some shape of pasta
i didn't understand
and tomato sauce.
he'll eat a lot and be sleepy

mailman on a motorbike stops
distributes packages into metal slots
says a few words to the locals
then continued up the street

i watched and leaned against the wall
contributed little to the conversations
did say it would rain this afternoon
the new local guy was interested

gino was not impressed, per usual
acted like he doesn't hear
has no expression, never does
yet, we're friends, everyone knows that

new guy talks with cinzia
romanesque friends saying nothings,
small talk together
signifying friendship

piccolo manuele struts in
wants to talk to new guy
who tells him, "ten minutes"
and brushes him away.

gino's elderly mother here today
day earlier than usual
he walks her toward franco's
whose wife is sister to Gino's mom

i am accepted now by manuale
he wasn't an ass today
we ignored each other
that's getting along on the street

mario whipped in, didn't speak
we will later, or some time.
he and i know we'll talk
when it happens, when necessary,

just now and then we do.
tough friends on the street.
for us, for the way it is
on via dei cappellari

i can't explain. where there is
no explanation for anything
it's not in the cards to matter
who's dealing or what deck is used.

manuele tries to get new guy away
again new guy holds up his hand
says, "ten minutes", turns his head;
piccolo rides away on his bicycle.



while writing this note
computer starts a scan
decides to reboot

i wait fifteen minutes
to see if the file i was working on
was lost.
it wasn't, this is it.

i suppose this is another
happy ending; though it depends
on how tough you're grading,
or how much pasta gino ate
sorry for the red herring,
just making conversation, poetically.

also ran, not me

birthday 70 out of nowhere

everywhere but facebook

said i was born 1905

FB wishes me happy 110

i join a poetry group online

can i think poetry?

russian major opposition leader

killed in front of kremlin

poetry stares at me

piano wants me play

book wants me write

edit calls for me

read before library

demands books returned

nutball stalker out there

have a nice day, a happy face

melodies want

out of me, me

and you, me, me...

70? not kidding?

i know the wished, not-wished

dark horse racing

through mist over

ever distant hills

3061

our phone number - four digits,

used to be three

when i was too young

to think about it

you could dial out of state

with help from the operator.

a little guy, Heinie Kensel,

was the village Morse code operator.

he rode a bicycle to work,

and repaired bikes at home on Adams Ave.,

in a part of town called Oklahoma;

probably cause it was out west of town.

Heinie worked at the train depot.

i'd been there, only for looking around.

a large beamed wooden building

as old as the railroad.

i'm sure someone told me

to get out of there.

it was no place for a kid.

as trains would whizz by.

don't know what messages

were sent and received by code.

could have been to send flowers.

i know it was long distance.

now, even today

the whole set up

remains a long,

long distance.

Antonio Salvatore 2

not absolutely, but maybe,
and that's very close.
poetry, like dialogue,
doesn't read as literature.

that was my disclaimer
prelude to say
of a thousand poems here
the most sought is

the one about my brief encounter
with renowned violinist Antonio Salvatore.
if we met again we
wouldn't know each other

it was a good day for both of us;
life has that happen occasionally;
ducks in a row
and pleasant times occur.


5 years ago we met on a bus,
chatted, end of story, basis for poem.
http://warmingtrend27.blogspot.it/2010/04/antonio-salvatore.html

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