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.

wood harbinger

wood harbinger heralds the snows
up winding the path covered white
a shelter in the bark
burnt folds are open to us
we watch the snow without
from within the tree
holding on to us
talking with me
i can tickle the giant sequoia
and it laughs a thousand year old laugh
out of deer, grey squirrels, chipmunks and birds
passing shadows
making faces
marking time
on top of the mountain
slight little me
how tall and how long
can you stand in rain
and snow
in winds that blow
in sun and heat
all seasons complete
an auburn tree watches and holds on to me
and reminds me not to rush
no worry so great
no love so strong
no time to stop
letting the world go on about its way.

the biggest raindrops

the moribund  go en masse
stampeding unleashed, wild running free.

an invasion force of filler fellows,

lean, manic decoration. 

but then the real gordos are engaged

beyond the last of the legionnaires,

after the noisy wind has scampered.

during the wee hours usually

when all is quiet.  that's their time.

they are fewer.  the summation.

it seems as regular course that the very
fattest raindrops jump when i'm sleeping.

they slip, or are pushed, off the cloud,

do something like sizzle on the way down;

a faint wet hiss or whistle, a quiet, steady

sound; the only one they make.

soar in solo,  a fly ball into center.

splat what they hit.  there are no misses.

outside my window they zap a plastic tarp

covering the neighbor's motorcycle.

after listening an hour i am conscious enough

to realize what's going on, and predawn

i write lines preserving their integrity 
in recognition of their sonic contribution

victory

victory over sail
sweeping far to sea
onward to uncharted shores
that's where i long to be

five centuries before my birth
ancestors sat at evening meal
even to this very day
i know just what they feel

deep inside of everyone
there flicks a tiny spark
passed through daughters and father's sons
now shadows in the dark

they live anew, though i know not where
or how much of them is able
to break into my consciousness
and be seated at my table

while they have long since fallen
bone and teeth far  gone
some thing moves from sun to sun
something left undone

victory over the sail
victory over the sea
the final quest lies beyond the sun
that's where i long to be

can i find the way?

the hum is the city

mouths closed silent

opening the day in force

moving in city numbers

calm, fresh, in a rush

good morning, meet those eyes

here i stop to make note

glance the ticking clock

now is our time

the crowd has a timbre, mood, a tone

could be the earth itself,  myself

full up this minding, hear that?

up close, it is not a hum

can i find the way?

undulating through combers

of people's notions;

some minikin thoughts are mine

though sustain on unattached observation.

as moment by moment

days rolling upon another

changing dream clusters

in motion. emotion. commotion.

my ship in harbor, no anchor holds me

waves of people walking, not talking,

not talking, although know well,

in their hearts everyone wants

to detail aloud their current concern,

ailment, injury, or when nothing else

is available, news of a friend or relative

                                                                                    

yes, pain sells like rain to the weatherman

if night dreams lingered

there'd be more to write about

but days would be confusing, jumbled.

again i take pause to note the ticking clock;

now is my time.  now is our time.

long ago my ship left the dock

can i find the way

moving maze forward

through waves of people thought

fumes haze the brain

coat a glaze,  damper the blaze

                                                

now call bill to meet for coffee.

after hello he said today is paper day, a reminder

knows well the trash collection schedule.

he'll tell more when we meet at Angelo's

there, he talks, i drink the coffee.

though i try to subsist on keeping track

make note again, eye toward the ticking clock

now is our time

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 life
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. 

reprise  - aug- 2010

together

knee-deep in wild weed let's walk
an afternoon together
you tell your tales, i'll tell mine
kicking a stick

tossing dust to the wind
a sampling of this
to determine that
a perhaps a small fire and coffee

under the sweet warm leaves canopy
as sun shoots rays
pressing against our cheeks
and in our eyes

brother to brother
sons and daughters
fathers and mothers
friends all together

these things
and more
will always be
as i say, as they are

i have an island

i have an island in my room

i keep it in my bed

it's there i sun and walk on sand

and swim inside my head

tight squeeze

tight squeeze this

early evening, where ahead

a small car parked parallel 

half on the sidewalk

a full grown German Shepard

reclines there.

shop workers, a man and a woman,

sit chatting, backs to shop window.

walking, i approach where lies the dog

to whom, firm, clear,

non threatening, i say, "Allora."

which translates:  "well, what now?"

the large animal lumbers to his feet,

slowly circles, moves out of my way

i glance toward the woman sitting there

who shrugs, with an expression that says

"well, sorry, you know dogs."

in turn i reply with my face that tells her,

"i understand, that is life, the way of the dog,

it's not always a dog's world"

or something to that effect.

at the same time

to the dog i did say

as i passed,

"grazie."

chance note

a variety of consciousnesses

preamble the talk, that other eve,

now past, forgotten, thank goodness.

change of  idea sub stratum  .  .  .

to Angelo i say, dirty water,

what they call caffe Americano,

first savored, then vetoed.

cappuccino me forever.

tension hangs air

as blown perm heavy in leopard pants

parading by, pulls small dog on chain.

forward - another day in paradise.

on wing time goes by. 

stumbling,  i make my way

taking choices

to live,  to learn - a veritable gamble.

then a bright flash idea occurs to me

which is immediately

lost amid random papers 

on the kitchen table of my mind

morning's rain

  morning's early rain fell lightly.

          tapping witth large drops in groups

then the soft sound like glass chimes

on and on again

 

in the moderate day-beginning chill of mid October

when it is cool, but not so much so

i left one window open

to my sound carnival

root spring

from roots deep we spring

as child with family and pets,

friends, cousins, uncles and aunts.

in school and holidays, we grow

a spinning maze

overlapped and interlaced

in motion.  when in a flash

we're old and recall gone days

then in a breath

we are back

to where are

our roots

three errors

impatient to go

couldn't find my keys

at last found them in my bag

they belong in my right pants pocket.

going down the stairs

i remembered my phone, go back,

unlocked the door, went in, searched

until i found it where it shouldn't be.

while inside i remembered

to check the gas.   i had left it open.

valves were off, ok; but

i close the tank for safety, always.

keys, phone, gas.  ID in my pocket

all was in order.

on the street i stopped,

made note of my errors.

noting errors is not important

remembering to think is.

if i have to make note to

remember to think i will.

when the first baseman

makes three errors

he gets to think about it

while sitting on the bench.

no one has taken me out
i am still in this game
will do the best i can. i believe Yogi
"it's not over 'til it's over."

baby bunny

morning's first light is golden, it seems.

worth seeing.

from the porch today i observe

she picks zucchini flowers large as panda bears.

pulls the stamen;  puts the lovers in a basket.

informs me the little bunny,

the one she talks to in a sweet baby voice,

has munched the stem and destroyed

the top off a pepper plant;

thus gaining disfavor.

stuff in our heads

mouths closed, silent;

opening the day calm, in order.

the many, the workers,

cool, fresh and clean.

if we could assemble

our confusing and jumbled

Rorschach pieces of dream

there'd be more we'd know.

Rome city life

Rome city life is to wait

opens at nine, and then some

no need to worry, enjoy the day

then Abdul showed

from afar he calls my name

more than a year since i'd seen him

my friend from Senegal

i left and brought him a coffee

our road is the city

there is no shame

honor is in friendship

we do what we can

four minutes on the dryer

walking closer it was fifteen

like life, you never know for sure

how much time is really on the dryer.

silence please

the silence of the morning

is like no other

except yesterday

and hopefully tomorrow.

i think even in sleep

you appreciate it;

benefit even, no doubt.

although i had to mention it

so nothing is quite

as simple as it seems;

with the possible exception

of that jerk that lives across the street.

cherries today

sunny early,  already warm

take your time.

driving out in the country

you know the way from past years

they give you a basket to fill

ladders are out there

old farm dog barkless, has seen it all before

select your first tree

point out good bunches

start picking your own

going up, reaching

farther, higher

eat plenty-many, that won't make it to pie

fluffy cat may follow a while

to see if you're good for a few strokes

and maybe some roll-over belly pats

no bugs, no buzzin' bees

pack out what you pay for

they weigh it up at the end

a summer day in the country

conjectural frogs

they're out there, hidden

unbeknown to the eye

under a gibbous moon and dawn stars

by thick antecedent weeds

a circus mire abounds

muted amid stitched nests of green

sans time or sound

invisible frogs

sunday about

we stopped in a town

after another called red haw

was still thinkin' about it 

'til m. said the k fell off

ordered a breaded chicken sandwich

cost ten cents less than unbreaded

an' they said it was bigger

hoped it was local, not out o' state

had water to drink

with ice cubes in the glass

stirred it with my fork

ordered at 2:10 p.m., ten minutes after closing

m. pointed to a sign on the wall

"Free Idiot Test, Limited Time Only

Act Now, $5", reached for my pocket

m. put out her hand to stop me

later driving, slowed on route 250

for a wild goose crossing the road

walking, and taking his time

in fine easy stride

not alarmed at all

when we whizzed by

that black sleek road warrior with the

white neck band like a cleric

the commander and lulu

the commander is flaps down
on approach to the final tarmac
wrapping up his mission

pa, and lulu with him,

are on the way out or maybe in
depending how you read it

a few years ago tom drove lulu, meri and i

back from tony’s restaurant
outside payson, an arizona hill town

as he sped hard to pass a truck he floored it  

and we were all thrown back in our seats.

above the gas sucking engine roar i commented,

“so you miss flying those pby’s, tom?”

and we all laughed
and to tears will laugh again
saluting the commander

and his real lulu



(wriiten for
the spreading of the ashes
from the mogollon rim)

standing mid market

standing mid market

see and hear the poetry of life

this early april now

another rainy morning

through drips and pauses
crowds that never cease

dragging puddles

tireless as vegetables

photos will remember 
where they have been

remind them of when when was

and they were really here

the poet among

speaks for them.  at night 
a gypsy one moment flash recalls

and will not say of one seen again

thus we travel boundless
colors, shape and sound

the world around

in and by affect