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

ship of dream

the large dark ship of dream
asleep on a flat blue bay,
a cardboard moon above,
nearby sometime in the future

violet tinted creatures reading this
say the continuum has altered
i can’t speak your language, i interject
surprised - they evaporate gracefully into their own time

i use mine to determine what has happened
while a crowd of clowns gather on the dock,
casting off lines on our large dark ship of dreams
“say there”, Bogart says to me under his hat, “easy”

at a glance he appears congenial, overdressed,concerned
leaning on a rail and flicking cigarette ash over the side,
“go easy, and pay no never mind”, i nod absently
all is subdued, dark silent, i’d like a sandwich

the yellow paper moon overhead hasn’t moved
the clowns are gone, Bogart’s smiling, the ship is sailing
on a dark flat sea, just for you,
just for me

i don't have

i don’t have ideas for poems
i have things i see, things i do, have done,
want to do, others to do, climb on,
best wishes to all

the music of words puts poetry together like a wave.
get on aboard, ride it out, one has your name on it,
a shooting star in the heavens,
discover the universe

physics of reality

physicists says properties in
the real world
are observer determined

so if a kid wipes a popsicle on the side
of your face, you’ll see orange dripping.
then you can simply turn a mental page

or chase him down,
sit on him ‘til he squeals
and quits laughing

or when you wake in the morning
you can just keep your eyes closed,
tuck in and think about things cozy

so your reality can wait chilling
and nothing will happen of consequence
until you decide to get up and observe something

2012

cleaning up scraps of paper
a lot of it receipts, tickets etc.
never ending piles of trash
trees cut, ground and milled

pressed into paper, inked, stamped
and cut with dotted lines
what is it for?
Berlusconi the wealthy Italian premier

has companies that make money printing tickets.
after we pay our money
why do we need a ticket?
there is one door in, one door out

when i was a kid a hundred was a lot,
it was the big number,
the maximum in everyday big talk,
bet you a hundred

million was something we heard about
but was beyond practical
used occasionally in conjecture
now population is counted in billions

i was ten when i read about the Maya,
their calendar ending in 2012
now, holy smoke, there's talk about it
it's closing in, as the world staggers

scientist talk about sun trouble,
near misses from soaring objects,
the out looks on several fronts are not encouraging
weather is changing, spare a quarter?

give me another ticket stub, i’ll put it
in a jar at home, or admire it for a millisecond,
tape it on the refrigerator, or rash it right away,
let city workers carry it away to Neverland

scraps of paper, pennies in a jar - the new economics,
floating plastic and submerged mush in rivers and oceans
rapid chopping trees like a cook does vegetables
oh yeah then, something i can deal with - what’s for dinner?

the ultimate capolinea

we can get on any bus there
she said as she pointed.
it was a capolinea, a stopping point,
halfway, for several bus lines

but she had called it more than that,
this was the great one.
she said from this capolinea
it was possible to get on any bus

sure i am reasonable,
but not a doubter.
if she said it, than from here
i imagine we could get on any bus

how about we take a bus
that goes by the great pyramid, turns left
then goes along the beach in
Zijuatanejo, Mexico in . . . say 1935

wait - i considered circling the moon,
then decided instead we’d take one
that sails the Caribbean - around 1500,
or there abouts

if you ever decide to ride this one
do wear light clothing,
bring sun protection, and be very sure
to pack a sword

way out to lunch

I have to report, because someone will comment about M. getting sick last week and my timing was off, so I’ll explain: this poem was getting warmed like buns in the oven since last week. I generally write them as they occur. Occasionally this is a diary of sort, but this time other things crept in and this piece had to wait.

So the story is that M. had the fever and is now ok. You can bank on it. So now read about it.


way out to lunch

out to good food lunch,
maybe the air was bad, of vegetable we had
a colorful mood bunch,
she liked it, that’s my hunch

though she didn’t say,
just went home then, the bus ride way, easy,
later that evening
she began feeling queasy

when up came a flash fever
she decided to chuck it,
couldn’t just leave her,
so i manned the bucket

rode the bus

rode the bus,
tourist window on the world,
fewer buses now in Roma
and they’re driving faster to make up for it

i don’t think we are supposed to notice the
cost saving measure, but i was seat sliding.
as we spun around a corner i reminded myself
the pleasure of dying in an accident

there is no prolonged advance worry before hand
like applying jelly to toast,
the knife hangs suspended,
then swipe, that’s it.

turned 65 so i paid half, 16, for a month bus ticket
now i ride twice as much to make up
for all the other years i paid double,
i think i can do it, i think i can, i think i can

Roma is changing face from winter to spring.
i pull out pen and paper to make note of
the two conditions of retirement:
nothing to do, too much to do

incident report from Rocco’s pizza,
dear sweet happy Claudia from Romania
got her vial tapped by the gangly mushroom man
long may they run, and happy together

got out in front of the bookstore at Largo Argentina
a grey worn tenor sax man in his late seventies,
with jazz music in the forties, has some stuff,
playing for hours, solo, for infrequent coins

as i drop him some, he slowly looks me steady in the eye.
insurance for my future, could be me some day
my wife pointed out that i don’t play sax
pshaw . i told her i could learn

backing up to see a phone number over a door
i fell back into a large flower pot, pot and i both ok.
i’m wearing my mail man shoes today,
got them resoled for 15 euro, met a new friend.

at the center of Piazza Cavour on the head of the statue
of Count Camillo Cavour who forged the kingdom of Italy,
two birds stand side by side appropriately
at pigeon attention

half hour later back on the bus
caught myself humming
the sax man’s tune -
Ecstasy

b. dylan

word got out, came around,
about this young guy
making music in the Village
knew he changed his name from Zimmerman

saw his wild strange mess photo,
and his songs came in on radio,
tried to wake us up, talked for us,
kept coming, slapping us awake

he wasn’t Peter, Paul or Mary
his voice and diction were unruly disorder,
played a funky guitar, so that
his harmonica was a dissonant plus

but his words, oh, the words were tight
they were packed weights, color and light,
riding melodies that rang hearts and minds,
even the timing for his coming was right

we wanted and needed him
there was a space in culture just then,
an opening wide enough for him to joggle through
tip his cap and be Bob Dylan for us all

there was math involved

when i was a kid i put a firecracker
into a lunch box
lit it and closed the lid
and threw it into my closet

i peaked to see the lid blowing off
then opened windows to get the grey smoke out,
when mom came home i told her so she’d quit worrying
cause she smelled the smoke

if i built that real moon rocket a few years later,
the explosion would have blown it to smithereens,
they had the thing go up for real, it did
and kept going up and up and out and far

now, before it happened the word was out
real good, because everyone knew,
even the night was perfect that July,
and the astronauts took a camera along

good planning to have a camera for everyone
everywhere in the world to watch it live,
the picture wasn’t perfect
that hardly mattered, there it was,

we saw Neil Armstrong come down that ladder
we knew his name right away, and that he was from Ohio
and we heard his words when
he stepped his boot in black and white into moon dust

we sat on the floor eating popcorn, as close
as we could get to Walter Cronkite, the TV and the moon
when he said one small step for man,
one giant leap for mankind

poetry began at the Ritz Theater

a scratched nineteen thirties movie
black and white, new way back once upon a time,
quality withered, it used to be so sharp
but who knows where that film was stored for years

hear clicking, the projector runs the sprockets
house lights dim, Mr. Mattee has a flashlight,
the smell of popcorn drifts and fills the air,
previews, the cartoon then the grand theme starts

filmed at dusk, there are fires
with nine hundred extras changing costumes
to be the villagers, the Vandals and than an invading army
fought inside, over and along ancient castle walls

of course there were towers, a moat and stirring music
and that’s the true story how i began writing poetry
when i was a kid, before that i thought about it
but wasn’t serious

how we pass our lives

how we pass our lives,
more than eat, sleep, work and play
it’s commitment to the running quest, the arts,
seeking to reach the best in every way

and the people we know, the wonderful people,
what they say, what they choose,
these things we relate to, a veritable love
day to day, win or lose

reflections on those i’ve known assist me
to evaluate position here in life, my own,
we must maintain control, be diligent, yet go easily,
while throttle open, wheeling free

of friends

of friends,
and our times
precious, special

when we meet and talk
inch our way
discovering who we are

taking food and drink together
sharing laughter
building the good hours

but people do move away
and it comes so sudden
when they are gone

best wishes, to all friends near and far,
and thank god we have pleasant memories,
warm like red hearth fire coals that linger on

i was born on

i was born on Steinbeck’s birthday
and have always liked the smell of ocean
also born the same day as Elizabeth Taylor
but haven’t married eight times . . . yet

i also share my day with Emperor Constantine
his year of birth is debatable,
you'd think they'd have kept better records
on leaders of the civilized world

just guessing now, but i
could have been born on Moses birthday
but his calendar didn’t have a February
anyway i’m of Polish descent not Egyptian

and if i were to leave my homeland, for sure
i'd never take thousands of people with me
and irritate the Pharaoh so terribly
that he'd chase me with his army



oh, and Longfellow's birthday too,
can't forget about him
else thing have to do
is write dis all again

Dumpling Realizer

without a glitch she passed
through the force field poles
that undoubtedly scan shoppers for weapons
or maybe just make pictures for the boys in the back room

as into market fighting for position, she goes
we’re having soup she said, i saw zucchini laid in a line,
a clerk with a braid came to her aid, once or twice,
she bought magic stuff to make dumplings

amid a symphony of vegetables, meat and a lot of cheese
she had taken her wheeled cart along
the one that is Scotch red and blue plaid,
i have no idea why they decided to spell plaid that way

we paid for all, including her Dumpling Realizer
what most earthlings call baking powder,
i thought i’d mention that,
as it is the name of this poem

braid, maid, raid, laid,
paid, aid, and plaid
there i said it,
and i’m glad

too much to ask

this may be
too much to ask,
it’s not really necessary,
we could leave it for last

but do i really need it?
it could be quite a task,
oh well, don’t bother,
forget i asked

out of time

difficult for me
to imagine the chapter,
walking my familiar street
in some other time, before or after

sooner or later, no matter
with no key in my pocket to unlock it
or permission to enter
because my door belongs to another

and the stuff inside there
is someone else’s now
or hasn’t happened yet
in another time, wow

to market

Isfahan's Grand Bazaar,
dates from the 10th century
is largely covered
and ten kilometers long

The Tehran's Grand Bazaar
is also ten kilometers long.
The Grand Bazaar of Istanbul
built in the 15th century,

is still one of the largest covered
markets in the world,
has more than 58 streets
and 4,000 shops

yet, i can moan congestion
and impatience when in line
at the tiny local market
with three people in line ahead of me

enjoy my words

enjoy my words, take a spin,
they are yours to hitch on
i’ve put them down for you again
but you know them in your heart

like the sun and the rain and the stars,
the wind and the snows
and the moon that rolls over head too
for all of them and love, for me, for you

and the fishes in the seas
and the bears in the woods
the birds in the sky
and the horse you rode in on

snow is on the way

snow is on the way
let’s sit back and watch time slip away
the kettle’s on the boil now
and the sun shot it’s last ray
let’s call it a day

if i

if i wasn’t running at the limit
floored in the fast zone
with three giant double rigs
trying to pass me on a curve

i’d jam your mailbox with fragment
flower pieces exploding fragrant color.
any time you like, say you need me,
i’ll be there

evaluating

evaluating after, how it came to pass,
the quick visit, our participation
they came, we there for them here,
around Roma then beyond, hang on

between rains and scattered sunshine
a meal to remember, the man, the ambiance, flavors,
a train ride, hilly green country along the way
photos taken, everywhere history on display,

people rushing, passing glimpses, no names,
man with blue funny hat, beggars, young people talking loudly,
others become connections, we talk, exchange names
proving - open of mind you discover

had to pay eleven euro to enter the museum
my birthday 65 is next week, then i enter free damn me free,
the young man at the counter said his line as it was written,
i saw it as a chance for humanity to work out details together,
overall i was seven days short and eleven euro lighter

back to their trip, in a nutshell, made choices
saw this, missed this other
no time for that, or i didn’t think of it
or was closed for the day, save some for next time

overall , the familial trip ends, what said remembered sketchy
air plane in, air plane out
flash trip snap, then zap, it’s over
Kodak had it right, we need photos,
besides - that’s what drawers are for

you just get on board

warped in mind they emerge from airport swirl
we train along with other weary passengers
to the central station in Roma, the Termini
then got on a bus, it departs

looking back we notice not all of us got on the bus
Kate is standing there
good bye, goodbye, Kate, fare thee well
we’ll find you in about a month,

it’s a big city,
if we look for you
if you’re lucky,
if the gypsies don’t get you first and sell you

miracle of miracles, never have i seen this,
just as i wave goodbye
the bus stops, and waits for her
their vacation is saved

and now it begins in earnest,
we’ll run them, fun them
let them sleep when the vacation is over,
for this is a trip of a lifetime, more or less, we’ll see
i don’t want to exaggerate

poemcholia

at times after i write them
i want to hold them tight then,
not turn my pet mice-like poems loose
out of the sock drawer to scamper, taking flight

snap-like go-now puppies on the run
out on their own rolling
beyond my control
out of reach, out of sight

crossing the street
against the light,
a lone drifter may find them and take comfort
some blue dark eerie night

that’s okay, though It’s still not through
cause then, of my poems,
what is left will creep around
eventually, to snuggle up with you

so it’s all okay,
i think
therefore i am okay,
i think

thank

thanks for looking
attention is a starting point
for rounds beyond bounds, yes it is
thanks for being you,
you have something on your sleeve there

every encounter
your pleasant manner charms
i know it isn’t easy
there’s certainly plenty with which to contend
i thought someone was checking invitations

you do well
i’ve got to say
my friend, see you again
another day
that’s his mother’s coat i recognize it

when you don’t quite understand
what is going on
it’s always better
to keep one hand
on your wallet

walk with me

walk with me this chill afternoon for a stretch, a dash
to capture light between buildings on our waning grey afternoon,
giving change to this day, hiding away from cold light drizzle,
it is winter and we have become weary of the season

while in this ancient city, Roma, it’s a traveler’s duty to lurk
these miserable damp streets, grey stone lanes we know well,
above , lights cast gay walking shadows on fine lace draperies
in grand high-life quarters, of which we’re forever strangers

a dark hovel is our consolation, dreary chamber we can afford,
fragrant luxury is wafting from farther down the street,
there, anointed families that have treasured this area for generations,
while, as fate would have it, we measure as the unfortunate newcomers

briefly passing through this place, we are contending,
dodging history in the evolution of the extended saga,
as a smudged foot note, on a page in the chronicle of events
that will carry well on, beyond us, murky into the long forever

Shahjan

this waiter at Bufetto Due
immigrated from Bangladesh,
has been working here three years,
during pre- crowd time we chatted

a good and gentle soul,
observant to see a kindred spirit,
took time to exchange words
brought us a lemoncello in parting

though only an acquaintance,
and heaven knows they come and go,
i wish Shahjan well on the journey
and peace, and happiness, i surly do

learning to help

pre-Christmas two years ago
all was quiet, even the mice, until
i crossed the street in front of a bus
fell and broke my wrist in three places

by the time i made it home
M. had a fine evening meal prepared
so i ate, needing only one arm for soup,
it was delicious, then went to the hospital

considerate M. waited four days
before she fell and broke her ankle,
our first broken bones were a teaching,
as we spent the holidays helping each other

the radio on

the radio on while driving
matching wits with news makers
often winning arguments, yelling out the window
i go on auto pilot,

making new slogans for commercials
often forgetting to signal,
with the window open i get wet
persistence keeps me on the road

i have learned to turn the wipers on,
lights would be fine if i could find them,
paying attention while driving is a good idea,
but i don’t seem the type

if lost i keep going
as long as there is gas in the tank
i know i could drive a taxi
those that i assist will tip me

of time

as it should be
tomorrow is unknown
and will arrive
in due time

it is far more advantageous
to retread carefully
lessons to be learned
from yesterdays

snowfall joy / blizzard of Roma

snowfall joy
from warm looking out
see those flake giants

barging down elbow to elbow
churning thick
tumbling fat boys

elated, she got me outside
hat gloves scarf bundled
treading the rare blizzard of Roma

where Piazza Navona is white open,
a snowball or two launched in Campo dei Fiori
then all too soon, sun comes out

off center

oh, bus in the rain
i’m back again, do you hear me
feeling no pain
only a little, look, i’m riding

must be the cold,
i can do dreary, getting old, and consider,
combine that with wet, not complaining yet,
see, like i said, it’s raining

talked to a guy from the Congo
studying on about priestly stuff
when i heard and had enough
got off the bus, lead by pure inspiration

M. said to ask those mechanics three
it was M., them and me
they pointed to a place - across the street
it’s good, they said, where we always eat

and just as i heard them say
was a mighty fine buffet
with prices better
this quick bus ride away, slightly off center

open ended conversation

on the radio
some call to say something
others call in
to be heard

walking down the street some talk
on the phone a long time
without pause for the other
is anyone really there?

always there are those
on the bus ceaselessly talking
fogging the window,
and have no phone

out styling

walking up a block
on Victtorio Emanuele where ahead is
a woman glowing several opposing colors, long skirt,
shawl, head dress, conflicting designs, and bangles

shoes mainly bright purple
with sparkles and curling trim,
bent low, working on a bag
what is this?

gypsies have gone conventional these days,
disguised away from tradition to blend in
facial features, eyes and hair identify them
surly this throwback must . . .

the woman stands and turns my way
by her face and hair
i she is Italian, evidently a
fashion statement out styling

to genial grey shoe man

to genial grey shoe man
again this week, where fifteen euro
resole and re-heel the repentant,
i bid two pair

one pair unaccepted, condemned
to hopeless misery, mine,
sticker them -
caution, for home use only

along the return way
wood man on cobblestone lane
before his shop working a cabinet into being
in greeting for me spontaneously

sang a made up song
i’ll translate - “the situation with my sister
doesn’t go well.”
i laughed out loud

between buildings
slats of sun
dump warmth out of season,
most desirable

heard a sound

heard a sound
in bed
going round
in my head

thought
it odd
i said
and thought it out

‘til it was gone
turns out
i was right
it was odd

if you're really Dave

somehow i evaporated comments
for Mr. Hill and woodsmoke
guilty i am - and no wonder,
without a secretary who else to blame?

if you’re really a Dave,
and you’re really an Andy
that makes three of us
who are whom we say.

as world population, now 6.8 billion,
grows a quarter million a day,
though some die, mean growth is steady
and eighty percent live on less that two euros a day

my retired friend used her life savings
to put a down payment
on a small 300,000 euro apartment
and can’t afford a computer, who will cry?

my dear, very crazy, very intelligent friend told me
we're all doing the best we can.

offering recognition now, here's to Julie
do read this heart to love

and, to you all, thanks for reading here
the augmented verse i'll continue to offer

until i’m through.
and you know, i won't be the last
other have said, by God,
it all happened so fast

now i am one

times ago when a novice to Italia
went on the road two months,
a touring play with a dozen Italians
coffee together, every meal, every day

coffee in the morning, you say
i can do that, start my day
or so it seemed, so i’d say
yet when it came all was outlandish new

disorderly turmoil, without deviation
coffee with these, the experienced,
weaned by the ages, since the beginning,
habitual action conferred by generations

my patterns needed compromise to function
i watched, i participated, adjusting i learned,
how long it takes, precisely how it is done
many roads that lead to the one

not of my bloodline,
infelicitous and extrinsic
day after day, until now,
now i am one

Mr. Hill

Mr. Jack, someone said the other day
my minds eye brought forth Everett Hill,
fragile, thin, gray, well beyond retirement age,
stayed on the job as the sweeper

there was an agreement,
when the old owner/boss retired,
he left word that Hill, as we all called him,
could stay on long as he could push a broom

it was a large city TV station
where a regular evening crew
cleaned the offices, waxed he floors
and took out the trash

when someone would get angry and cursed,
if Hill was around he’d call out
“don’t chew be bitter now, Mickie”, or whoever,
light heartedly he enlightened us

Hill was a daytime fixture
in the lobby, if it seemed interesting
or, in one of two large studios
casually dragging his long handled push broom

our work was in the studio
getting ready, working a show
then putting our things away
Hill was always around, just around

Mr. Jack is what Hill called me
he called everyone Mr. whatever their name was,
the important ones he used the last name
we the workers were Mr. First Names

for as long as he could show up
that was the deal that Hill stuck to, often reminding ,
as he does now working with the heavenly crew,
with a smile and a shake of the head,“now, don’t be bitter”

wood smoke

i split part of a small bottle of Chinotto,
an Italian soda since 1949,
somewhat like coke, but bittersweet
M. and i sat talking and sipping

she said our flower girl, who was eight back then,
this week sent an email saying she saw
Claraville in the Sierra Nevada of California
and our old buildings on Google satellite

thirty years ago we were married amid the pines
on Piute Mountain, when we were young, before
Google, email and we'd ever thought of living in Italy
now flower girl has her own daughter eight

our friends Lonesome Al, Piute Jerry and Cutter Bill
have all gone off to some hidden mountain cabin
reeking of pine, sipping hooch and laughing
i am sure they all are all laughing

now and then, in contemplation, M. and i recall
those rollicking times, warm fires and adventures
precious, pleasant memories all,
filled with friends, long starry nights and wood smoke

a little sun

a break from the february cold
we're in reprise with good sun
from the window
i confirm fair weather

below, the blue coated white haired woman
over from seaside Ostia on a day trip
teetering along with her elderly daughter
to their smiles i salute with cheery greetings from above

out the door then we encounter Mario
the antiquarian in front of his shop working
a piece of furniture over a pair of saw horses
we nod as he keeps sawing

then Stefano, flakes of white plastered face and clothes,
greets us, he reports that in all of Italy there are
three cases of chicken pox, one of his small children
has it, ready to pass it to the other

high up the lady who walks her two small white dogs
is at her window in the arch
that spread across our tiny street
talking to a neighbor in another window

we say ciao to Franco One
then a step later ciao Franco Two,
both do furniture restoration
in their workshops on this street

Marjia passes next, just back from a month
visiting her mother in Finland
with an imperial salute she reports this high,
snow there is chest high

Marina the ceramic painter crowds through
in her auto, where one rarely comes by
it’s the only vehicle we encounter
in a half-block walk on this cobblestone way

finally, at the corner an old store keeper
sits catching sun in a rocker
her old husband is nearby talking with a friend
we good morning them all

then to the market, the Chinese side of the train station
loading our cart, see a tiny old woman, tall as my waist,
bent forward walking, her sailor’s deck-mop sheep dog grey and
white hair blows ahead in the light wind, and proceeds her

i take the cart the rest of the way home
while M. goes for a free Christmas ball from the Vatican tree, but
returned to report the tree remains dead, decorated and standing
usually it is down by Valentines Day

we have to be there on the day they are taking it down
no notice is posted, we keep checking
as in all of life
timing is everything

in a while

once in a while,
the very while
that occurred
this afternoon

it seemed learning
or along that vein,
had to do with
keeping mouth closed

when then we saw Bruno and Wendy
Wendy’s sister was there too
that’s what Bruno said, and better that i waited
instead of asking if this was Wendy’s mother

their two kids were also tagging along
ages seven and ten
we knew them before they married
not the kids - Wendy and Bruno

the kids we never knew
because they never were
when that ago time existed
once, in a while

day watching

day watching each slipping
gracefully along
nearly asleep walking
blinking then away

gone drifting
one moment droplets
in life’s stream, drip passing
to clear dark cool river

flowing steady beyond
lake to locks
becoming roll folding
soft blue oceans

whispers fog again
globe breathing
circling with fishes
gather mists

clouds building grey darker
all above sailing
over birds
on wings of winds

gradually reformed
now droplets
fall again lovely
light rain

january emptied out

making notes i am
sorting words, stacking cards
one dog barking

i glance up at dark blurs
some birds boring blindly
misted into running low grey clouds

on the hill above, the Gianicolo,
a cannon fires a wisp of grey into the chill
the city beyond hears the signal and knows it Is noon

we board a bus of content silence, scarves and caps
off for a bite of lunch, our own words begin, blend,
weave and overlap with the others

then a little walking
through the crowds
a lot of talking

don’t hear what they’re saying
making plans I suppose,
some gesturing, pointing

laughing young women
heads together
recount social victories

few small children pulling against their mothers
today many little wrapped ones in blankets
lulled to silence in four wheeled strollers

temperature is dropping
who is content?
some calm hangs poised over complacency

after evening buses slow, then cease
overnight becomes the soundless
when imagination is the only border

old Roma does survive

just a Saturday no account bus ride
to keep oiled the well honed skill of passenger
to just the other side of the Vatican sprawl
to the new/old Trionfale Market

home of vegetables and the like
all on the first floor of a new building
where underground is parking
above, space for offices

under control now
gone are the renegades, mud puddles and gypsies
law and order has, if not prevailed,
at least made it’s presence known

saw many stalls
so many,
compared prices
walked till tired

nearby stopped at a lunch place for lunch
food was good
prices were one third - i say a third - of those
in the tourist area

all of it proving, if taken together,
old Roma does survive
if you look
in the corners

went to the bank

woke with little cash
so went to the stone block grey bank
where green money comes out,
not enough going the other way

the newly installed door into the bank
is see through amber grey space age,
first push a small round steel burnished button to enter
a slender vertical box for one

keep arms and scarves close to your body
in the curved vertical box wait a second,
large size people in heavy coats with large purses
need bank elsewhere

zzzithppp swings a curved bullet proof plastic door
closed, vacumn sealed tight, until after a pause
opens another panel - zzzipp - on the other side
to allow access into bank proper, move quickly

space age, nearly silent the door
hhhhmmmpft it goes behind me
i’m sure some one found a ufo in a field somewhere
and reverse engineered the door

at times we see

at times we see
go by faces we know
somewhere out in the city,
folks from our long ago

strange how it can be
that we run into each other,
intersecting at the right moment,
by chance, without notice in advance

what a nice plan, accidents are
that good kind, the meeting,
the greeting of surprise,
in a fleeting moment of encounter

some leave our life
without a goodbye,
for a quirky reason they are gone
never to cross our way again

it’s no wonder why
and no need to be witty
to know, above all,
that’s life in the city

like a daqueri

can't talk fish out of a river
and writing story's another thing
but a few lines i can deliver
with a twist and bit of sting

where goes the Bard of Avon

if there is reincarnation
wouldn’t Will S. make an appearance
seems by now he would
he’d want another go

perhaps a scientist this time
or a grill cook who kept quiet
live solo in a trailer on town’s edge
or as female this go around

how about a sports star
there have been a few greats
maybe a horse racing triple crown winner
and i don’t mean the jockey

nearly striking fortune

when i was 19, 20, 21 thereabouts
i wrote a song "Milk and Honey
that is where we have been
milk and honey
away from the streets of din"
it was not a hit
in fact, no one liked it

i knew nothing about honey and milk
milk was for cereal
and honey went on graham crackers
never graham factors,
those being factors for determining ambiguity in U.S. patent law

and what was i doing writing about din
when the only din i ever heard of was Gunga Din
i should have been writing about
things i knew like
have you seen my basketball?
i left it in the closet but it isn't there

another near fortune occurred
when i came up with
outerlated insulwear
but couldn't put it together
a definite swing and a miss

ten thousand

ten thousand lives - nay,
ten million and more have seen
light of passing sun and moon and stars
giving this world a try

be it fresh fruit and friends
warm nights and soft breeze
or bitter cold and high winds
starting young, bending like trees

while growing daily older
honor both the day and night
hats off to home and loved ones
work long and hard to get life right

here we stay ready
to go again tomorrow
through life’s cathedral
blessed be the harmony

if in a slip stream through time

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

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

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

sad poems

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

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

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

stone

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

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

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

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

time like olden days

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

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

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

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

until you get it right

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mr. moon mixes his days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fictitious facetiousness

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

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

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

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

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

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

b.

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

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

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



addendum:

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

these poems

these poems are
a sturdy little cabin in the woods
just a bit more than you imagined
where wind outside hums gentle hush
a rushing in and through the trees

now pause, take rest
enjoy evening's quiet time
before bears and birds
and others prowl about

do, sit now by the open stove
a light warm shawl around your shoulders
and an inviting wooden rocker
with a colorful clean soft cushion

a fresh sturdy length of log is added on the leaping fire
sparkling red and orange glowing coals
dancing reflections, crackles in the quiet
all smoke goes up the chimney
perfect in every way

a cabin rustic and reminiscent of times past,
call them the good old days.
a warm drink?
coffee, tea or beer, also liquor if you prefer

good crackers and cheese
the like of which you have never had,
a taste that will surprise you
delight you, just right

we can sometime be a ship
at sea in good weather
sunshine
sure the wind is always at your back,
a pleasant rolling, dolphin, soaring gulls

the right air breeze
ripe sea splashes
pleasure for your taking
enjoy the space
at your pace, my friend

we may talk a bit and laugh
eat a good bite
chocolates or a sandwich
an excellent soup of modest design

while you tell a story, or I will
and moonlight shines
the morning sun will rise
pastel sky and clouds fill the skies

soft music on a guitar,
maybe a piano in the next room
all things, all ways,
just right
in this cabin in the woods

terror

terror has no warning
while good or bad
life itself
is a lucky streak

expanding like the universe
all is chance
do the dance
nothing lasts forever

the end of an era

thinking about my mom when i woke today
her memory lives
in many ways

M. and i got on a 60 bus, out
one of the old gates of Roma
beyond Porta Pia,
on Via Nomentana

M. had a plan
so we went
to a spot, once in the country,
now in the city,
a quick ride away

to a church built in 400
for the daughter of Emperor Constantine
the sarcophagus is empty now
the body was taken to the Vatican
she had connections you see

in an adjacent church
as we enter a service ends
they carry out a coffin
another story ending

M. whisper asked about Claudio
a woodworker who married a Polish lady
we’d seen him a week ago
said they were moving to Poland
we'll not see him again

bused back near the termini
for pizza at Rocco’s
worker Caudia was there that morning
is pregnant, felt sick and left

no, she won’t be returning
that is the Italian way
out the door, we don’t know why
and gone forever,
that’s for sure

gone for always, like my mom,
like the one they carried out of the church,
like the daughter of Constantine,
like the body in the catacombs,
like Antonio to Polonia

first it's today
and what was yesterday,
is swept up,
given to the ages
the end of an era

so long, Claudia
here’s wishing you well
though we didn’t see you go,
or say good bye,
we’ll remember you
in good spirits
as you were

in good spirits

bus driver for the dead

less than two decades ago
buses in Roma filled with chatter
a plethora of voices
and every two speaking with each other
at the same time

like televised news segments
showing typical Italian disorderly debates across a table,
commonly there is no pause for the counter view
both speakers vehemently argue their point at the same time
each trying to talk louder than the other
this is both unbelievable and it is true

in those good long ago days past
yapping voices on a bus
like pups in a kennel
rattled the bus windows
in jocular and obtrusive good spirit

now with cell phone, there are times of the year
when everyone is on the phone talking
no one is listening,
i long suspected there is no one on the other end
in some of these long winded conversations

today, cold and wet miserable,
post holiday winter sales over,
the faltering economy generally down,
no one speaks – absolutely no one -
silence pervades

the bus driver is a driver of dead spirits
wait – some voice in the rear of the bus
ah, teens – well, they’re out of step,
and no one listens to them anyway

over on the dark side

over on the dark side of town
whizzed by the big charcoal gray stone church
santa maria maggiorre, or saint mary major
one of four Papal basilicas in Roma

it’s just over from the train station,
we splashed in the fountain there
one fun night years ago,
only now it is morning

passed the church on the bus
to Esquilino the market – the big one
jammed packed alive crawling like
mice over rice on the run, alive i say, alive

had a coffee, then half of cold thin pizza
to carry home, along with our shoulder bags
laden with three pounds of clementinas,
two pounds of polenta, peas and pistaccios, and pane
(which is bread – but pane starts with a P
and this is like happening poetry)

presto we were out of there
busing home with our booty
on two expired tickets
looking for ticket checkers all the way

we made it – wait
some one is lying in the street below our window
it’s Leonardo again – the guy
who was on fire last week

lying now in front of Mario's store
Mario was there, his nose broken by his
stick swinging nephew, little Manuale
also last week

went out and helped keep Leonardo comfortable
shortly an ambulance came and took him away again
i think his burnt leg gave out,
i know he did

Mario is doing okay
he has a good attitude
mind if we take a break now
enough action for one day

repetition

writing something
waxing the table, learning a skill
like riding a bike

follow the masters
take instruction, sharpen and hewn
then you do it, over, again and again

ten thousand times over
with care and attention
find joy in repetition as means to an end

learn well, this is your life
do the job ,
do it right

poor violin

in the piazza again, plays without giving
without tempo, lean, shabbily dressed
sans feeling, songs run together
effort expended is to show up

three minutes pass, the repetition pauses,
passes into the crowd, no one looks up
extending a paper cup, seeking coins
he just got there, most ignore him, now he is leaving

moves on in his round, they don’t see him go
to the next outdoor café, few notice,
repeat motions of the last hour, the last day
there is no end, melody fragments the same

months pass into seasons, some give coins for no reason
as years slip by, he has a poor violin, not quite in tune
faces at the tables revolve, he need not notice,
does his rounds again, plays the violin heartless

un altro giorno in paradiso

looked out the window, checked the weather
then off to the market by the Vatican train station
returned home once for umbrellas,
weather from the window can be deceiving

then out again to that outdoor market under partial awnings
to get the names of ingredients in a vegetable mixture
a wonderful assortment of greens we bought yesterday
and now want to duplicate ourselves
careful now, we don’t want to duplicate ourselves
just that mixture of greens, stay with me

now home where M. is reading of old Roma
Bernini getting an obelisk in 1636
it nearly went to a collector in England
ended instead at Piazza Navona

M. reads aloud while i wonder
what note i didn’t jot down this morning,
rolled over in bed instead of getting up,
another idea lost to the ages

now hail is falling this afternoon
i didn’t have to say falling on the outside
cause i know now you’re reading carefully
aren’t we about finished?
can i take a nap?

wait, commotion down below
a fight broke outside
must be thirty-five people out there
it’s franco’s family, all of them
and friends and onlookers,
the usually sedate wife too, screaming

Manuale beat his uncle with a stick
three cop cars pulled in and broke it up
little Manuale split before they got there
he's the little prick who set off a half stick of dynamite
on new years eve in campo dei fiori
another day in paradiso

beam me

years ago there was a TV commercial
that said – bite me brother,
i’m a chunky

that was a candy bar commercial
that got laughed off the air
and went the way of
free willy

now,
back to now again
i saw three separate ladies

naturally they were separate
there were three of them
it wasn’t a tricycide
or a threeoid

one, two and the other one
not together
just shopping where I could see

absoluteway, there were three
women fortyish
they each wore blue jeans
that is the thing, the jeans

now,
twenty brief years ago
not now twenty ,
then twenty

well, they weren’t brief years either
just seemed that way
say zip

way back then,
there were no supermarkets in Roma
just open markets and small stores

that brief time ago the women
would have worn dresses
and their aunts,
and their sisters,
and Uncle Henry - uncle Henry? what the hell
get him out of . . . oh, he was just trying it on
and the next door neighbors
and their cousins
and their mothers
the lot of them

but now
it’s all blue jeans, TV and cell phones
a new world, baby
paper or plastic?

so beam me
somewhere, please
it’s your pick

i’m set
my jeans are packed
i’m ready to go
ciao ciao, john denver
see ya'roun, clownie

2010

i read on Andy’s blog
he is going from two thousand and whatever
to twenty ten, stream lining,
coming of age, me too then

nineteen something
was an old man on a crutch
twenty ten is a compact
with lubricated hinges

i’m stepping lighter already
head up, walking tall
come on down the line, new year
i’m unpacked and ready for it all

no technician has to fix it
Mr. Modern Guy has got it all(that's me)
all I need's a Chinese restaurant calendar
on the refrigerator or the bathroom wall

hoppng along

hopping along
this little bird
quickly sorting, checking
for what’s edible, i suppose

doesn’t turns it’s head
to look at me, keeps working
of no concern, although near
i’m not worth a glance

in this world, on this edge
who sees reality
and how much is apparent
to the bird or to me?

cold, wet january humanity

bused to Piazza Barberini
to our car insurance office
to see what we pay this year
where nothing is easy

took forty minutes
this afternoon a friend
will try online
to find a lower cost

stopped for lunch at Pasquali’s
sat at the common table
with the headcount
chatted with the regulars

the driver from the Maltese embassy,
another regular is curtain maker
for Rupert Murdock,
someone said i was a retired actor

so i mentioned working with Francis Coppola
Italians like to hear of Italians in Hollywood
and old folk drop names to keep face
at the common table

numerous they are
on varying paths and stages
through this maze
of humanity

Rupert Murdock’s curtain maker
i liked that, worth repeating,
first to my friend Bill who for forty years
has cooked for various embassy events

two day review

I.

sun bright
cold light
quiet Sunday
gentle anticipation in the air
saturates the walking gentry
tasting environs

II.

Monday contending
cool light winter rain
a light charcoal gray street sheen
umbrellas out for an airing
no hurry day people
all walking with care
cobblestones are slippery

horses

on Sundays Carabinieri in formal uniforms
patrol the center on their mounts
a morning treat to see
as old church bells toll the hour

upon waking we hear them,
look down from our window to see the slow passing,
two mounted officers ambled along
the stone narrow cobblestone way

the scene brings a warmth to my heart
in nostalgic alluring beckons of clip-clop
a connection with another age
to this sunny peaceful Sunday beginning

up predawn

up predawn
and i like it
nothing is going on
the ringing in my ears is me
straining to hear something

when i open the window
i swear i hear sweet dampness
on grey stone walls
from overnight rain
the city sound is not a hum
it's near rain dripping
humidity from damp January

there, a church bell
counting seven
not that early now
it took a while to start writing this

got up an hour an a half ago
arranged engravings on the wall
set the lights a new way
played the piano and got into it

don’t get excited, it’s only improvisation
quiet, dramatic, eclectic, i take my time
musically looking into how i feel
how it sounds to me
what i can imagine

headphones, electric piano
used audience concert hall settings
so it sounded large to me, distant
but all was quiet in the room, not disturbing
she is asleep in the other room

gray and white gulls on roof tops down the way
off a few blocks
or could be over the river
i haven’t been out at this hour to see if they’re flying
or just sitting above somewhere conferring

a friend used to tell me how much gulls and pigeons bothered him
always making noise
he lived above all
and i envied the light he had, the view
i can only imagine
this building is empty, only she and i

thinking of the top floor
i’d like to take a look from there
roma, the church tops, far hills and obelisks
the sky change, pale dawn light
i can only imagine

first light now, sky change
up there
while here it is mid street
half way up
between buildings
mostly quiet at this hour

make that very quiet,
i have to listen carefully
to sort the emptiness
to think of things to hear at this hour

there, the dragging of a suitcase over the cobblestones
now that reminded me of old times
early morning hand carts of the market vendors
taking out their carts from storage areas
beginning in pre dawn

but that was twenty years ago
now they start much later,
fewer in number
the market is fading in the advent of supermarkets

a door closed somewhere up the street
the only hum of the city is from the refrigerator
some voices talking down the way
it starts slowly, another day
building blocks in the story of the ages
i'll make coffee now
day has begun