face it

wind blows light steady on
the wall clock says near eleven,
but it's only nine.
the clock stopped some yesterday.

i have a new book to read, a couple...three.
we go to the town old place for breakfast;
not a century old, but what they've got.
the old regulars show up, usually.

no coffee for me this morning.
gary a questionable walks in, walks out.
no old guys at their table,
mr. becker died.

his funeral is this morning.
we live in the building...
his potato-chip factory.
and the clock keeps spinning

eyebrows are so
you can look startled
curious, interested,
or angry

eyelids are for winking
and closing out light
the part of the night
when you're sleeping

crying is for babies
and feeling better, after




.

while watering
i saw the large, fuzzy baby bird,
looking better today.
he was there below the
spot on the fence where i saw him yesterday.
looking fit. i could identify him;
of course he's grey, not an owl.
he's a pigeon, comfortable now
in the garden.

7 may, a robin on the fence
with a mouth full of sticks,
you know what he is doing.
i waited ... then went inside
and looked out the curtain.
robin went above the rose bush,
below the eves, out of sight.
M will say if the spot if good.
right now it doesn't matter...
robin has building on his mind.


.

a fine quiet early evening, i stepped out on the porch.
sat on the bench ... watched as a wren flew off
a large fuzzy baby bird ... pigeon or what...gray,
stayed on the post on the fence
shaking a small amount, feathers messed in places,
like he fell out of the nest a day early
seemed lost. i watched a while.

went in, rewrote some lines,
took a breath , right there after the comma.
saw the sky almost had a rose color in it, and blue.
then came back out.

jacket weather cool at seven'
glanced quickly and couldn't find the bird. hoped he found
a leafy spot to hide in the garden somewhere.
i didn't look that hard. tomorrow i'll think of him
and watch for him.

beige lake, a graying strait/
white gulls with blue markings zip overhead,
banking, dipping fast like kites on fire/
a hum, hollow sound/
can't say from where.
gold fields, azure sky, woods beyond/
powder white clouds trimmed in gray/
i hear distant trains/
dogs on leashes excite a small boy/
in a child's voice he asks dad ... who knows what/
tops of cars pass beyond far fields/
near flashing ripples sparkle water/
gulls held aloft by the wind/
some tree shade



.

spring ahead, fall back
who was the knucklehead's wife that came up with that one?
and other countries followed the lead?
can't we leave nature alone?
it's how the planet works ...
can't we live with it?


/

it looked like a patch of snow in the field
got closer.  it was the sun reflecting in mud





.

first thing in the morning
count your lucky stars;
figure if you awaken
you're riding a 4lucky steak



.

lost my pen
checked my pockets
pulled out fuzz
nothing hatched

went to the doctor
that's where I've been
took me a pen,
can write notes again.




.

can a car be in river
water to the windows
and still work?
Before the Internet
you had to write a newspaper
to the column Ask Mechanic Bob,
or some one like that
who might answer your question
and were really five guys
working i an office
eating donuts.



.

sometimes i work harder and sleep longer,
or drink more coffee and think of days
spent far away - other places, other times,
i'll take my pick, depending on the weather,
how the sun is shining, how the wind blows.

now where i'm sitting the sun is in my eyes;
but isn't it grand...because that's the same sun
you're looking at; amazing.
that's how it functions...
world without end.

you know, when i used to make a camp fire
wood would burn down and there'd be no fire.
the sun has been burning since before we were,
so how does it do that and not turn to ashes?
who's adding fuel to the fire?



.

just read February has been the warmest on record.
they say it will be 65 Fahrenheit today here in Ohio;
meanwhile Trump is complaining about the news media.
i'm glad there is something to read with coffee in the morning.

well, where is the snow?
it's the dead of winter...time for blizzards.
so where did it go?
certainly not as i remember.

kids have to play, you know...days off school.
while old people watch white pouring down,
thick on the ground, all around, packing us in.
this year i never had to look for my boots.


.

chi gung

fingers on the collar bones,
rotate the head around, slowly.
both directions. my neck pops
like i'm wringing a stalk of celery



.

maria

she has gone now.
got word this morning;
alberto called. before he said
i heard the message in his voice

she...a few words yesterday,
wanting to say to me...
then dropped the phone.
i know you friend, maria.






.

to creeks jumped
and those fallen into.
to bridges crossed,
those ducked under.

to all frogs and fish,
birds and the clouds,
rain in the forest,
over brambles, through fields,

and down long highways.
in sun, snow and quiet nights,
flowers, weeds and vegetables included;
a salute to the finish and new beginning.






.

waiting for james.
he stopped by a month ago,
oregon to ohio,
to Boston, to Rome.
back with his brother
52 and 50,
the drummer and the unpredictable,
nicest guys i could know.
known 'em grow.
said he'd be here last week
that was the plan
now short hours away,
ahead of the snow.
he and Alex heading to Portland
and adventure.
while i read...check out the window,
waiting for james



.

had coffee...
tapped my spoon on the table,
no sugar for me,
ate enough cookies this week.
gazed out the window
saw more parking spaces than usual,
and fewer birds; seems they all
flew home for the holidays..
gazed more... thought
of warm water swimming,
took just one last cookie
for dipping.


.

the olives can go in the refrigerator
is what she said to me
can they now? that got my attention,
i squinted at her

didn’t believe her, not then.
that was absolutely not true.
those olives can’t go anywhere,
watch them; even if they tried.

i know for a fact, no doubt about it.
take a load off, olives,
you can put the load right on me.
your going days are over.



.

such a beautiful Christmas tree
nearly twenty feet tall
in the neighbors front yard,
been watching it for years;
he's not using it anyway.
our ceiling at home reaches seven,
i only need some off the top.
i'll buy neighbor kids beer
have them cut the top at night
and deny involvement

forget the above. I remembered Gregory
Corso's beat generation poem about
learning to drive and
mowing friends down:
humor from another generation.
unkind doesn't work now
when we need to go easy,
we surly do.
we need kindness, even in humor.



.

practically Christmas
a few days to go
they say it will rain
how can they know?
staying home i'll sing in my head
White Christmas...
"may your days be merry and bright"
at night go to bed



.

shortest day of the year
can you feel it?



.

five days before christmas
a mexican food lunch
loosen up




.

i awaken and look at the news
then i'm sorry i did, for what i read;
for what is said saddens me.
where is the love and the dreams?

softness, it seems, is waylaid by power
and grandeur of prominence.
shall we avoid the sweet scent of flowers?
give mankind gentle notions again.



.

America has computers.
Pick an issue and a day;
in 24 hours know exactly
what the people say.



.

a lazy gray day watching droplets;
well, first sensing them until
i looked beyond thin curtains
to see silver sprinkles puddle up.

visible from my easy chair,
pearls splatter and shatter softly.
will pour later is the consensus
of weather forecast providers.

i sip coffee to heed what is
given by professionals or,
as in days of old, will dauntlessly
draw my own conclusions.



.

2016 super moon, bright white
and larger; nearest until 2034.
got up at 2:00 and saw it a minute;
went back to bed. slept through most of it.





.

you can yell at the dog
he'll feel bad
and not remember
why you're yelling at him.



.

two horses
in the small corral
stand in extreme opposite corners,
though horses like company.

these two must have been
together long enough;
each knows
what the other has to say.



.

waiting in rome

the function of bureaucracy
is to make you wait
to show who is boss
to keep you little people down,
in place, engaged

there is a seat, take it
it will be a while
take a number
grasp the ticket
no one will look at it
but it gives you
something to hold on to



.

nothing doing

from fifty yards away, black and white,
serene on the banks of a placid pond.
i watched for fifteen minutes
fifteen geese taking life easy

they sat or stood in the sun,
a few briefly walked a tight circle,
then sat again. content with time off
from what they do when they're busy


.

october wind and warm/
still, pancakes for breakfast were just right/
u sure?/
wait...there aren't two voices in a poem./
tell Shakespeare/
his were different/
and yours is the same?/
well, not the same...You know i made your part up, don't you?

by request -
hey, tomc
okay, hey
it's national poetry day

i'll wait for intergalactic poetry day
and the new planet they found,
where life has just begun
a mega-gazillion miles away/

so after a giga-zillion years
it's not spinning on it's axis/
there it's still ten in the morning - day one/
what fun. spinning takes practice.

went to Oregon
bought marijuana in a store.
smoked a joint. it took three days.
didn't finish it all.
best i felt in years.
$9, it was fine.
couldn't bring any back to Ohio.
come on, America.
the young can bang heads playing football;
we old want to sit in a chair, relax
and feel good.


.

fog in the morning,
we used to say thick as pea soup.
now, perhaps it's broccoli du jour
jesus crimney - i mean it



.

rain louder than the train

harvest moon so soon it seems,
though it's been a year;
this night i stayed in bed, didn't open the curtain to look.

Then a brilliant flash at three
and i counted the seconds eight, nine, ten, eleven...rumble.
again a flash - i counted to nine that time.
nine miles away.

i imagine the storm diminished
as i slept gain
until rolling thunder when i woke at six.
left to right, across the sky.
and the rain was louder than the train...two trains around seven.
pouring hard on and off this morning.

This night i slept well,
wrapped in good thoughts and dream.
how about you...how'd it seem?



.

that place without time

where i go in dreams
is all...it seems/

boundless, sweet love



.

went to the grocery store
bought a ham sandwich they make there.
carried it home where she she cut it in two.
i asked which half was mine.

while cleaning up the last of the mustard
that she blew all over the floor
she zeroed in when she said,
"take the half that doesn't have a bite out of it."

there wasn't any mustard on it either.


.

old friends are special;
if you can deal with old coots.







.

i hear the softest melody
when i think of you.






.

my, it's hot. even
inside where it is air conditioned;
dampness creeps the walls
and clings to you.

not a day to stroll shady woods.
skip that. they say it'll be cooler tomorrow.
why not sit down, relax;
sip green tea.



.

when it's warm out
and work is done
i'll sit quietly
and wonder.


.

The whistle seemed a good idea
lets people know a train is coming.
first a guy invented the whistle,
another said, "I can make it louder."

we live a half mile away from the tracks,
over the hill and down a bit.
every morning after the train runs through town
i have to straighten the pictures on the wall.

addendum

Someday they'll find
those early morning,
ultra blasting train whistles
blew America's mind.

already summer is moving on.
don't have a final tally
the garden's given many veggies.
now, it's yours to rally.

took the wire from the garden.
come on, boy, don't chu dally,
we win, we do; and you do too -
we'll call it bunny valley












.

geeze cake

seek and enjoy.

when you find, and we found
a breakfast spot, another
not a big corporate job...
a little ma an' pa,
and this one had cheesecake.

ok, not your usual breakfast fare but, how about it...
four different kinds, brought from Cleveland.
cherries, blue berries, straw berry and another..
call it a wonder berry...I can't remember.
oh, yes, to look at them is fattening. What a way to go.
I tried a piece...no, not tried, I ate a piece.
As good as I imagined...as good as you can imagine.
hmmmmmm...cheesecake.

spinning

two eggs, two pancakes, i ordered.
the chubby waitress, embarrassed
about her glasses; still cute and kind.
and the world goes on spinning;

sipped coffee by the window.
i see giant nimbus clouds roll by.
geeze, big as old sailing ships.
thought of mocking-birds, used to hear them.
Uncle Clifford's hand pump well,
and fresh, clean, country water splashing.

then outside, a drunk on a bicycle stops traffic.
he's old enough to know better.
and the world goes on spinning.
i'm glad there is nothing for me to hang on to
or i'd write the same poem every day.

nowsville

Oh, welcome thee of the illerati
now chillax.
click-bait and pocket monsters
sort them out; it will be.
i went dark yesterday, no one noticed
OMG, your guyliner is smudged

early morning train

slid the window open after three
dreamed clouds again until five-thirty
when, from long beyond
i heard the name say - i am train

calling low in light rain,
sweet voice, milk and thunder
clawing on wings of steel,
lonely is the night, strong, sure

swinging through, blasting,
rolling heavy on quick-wheel feet
powering around, long through, then out of town,
murmur lonely; cutting night stillness, like a blade on ice

iron maiden go, into first morning light
familiar friend, shaking windows with your power,
i smiled, low in bed, covered my head
slept another hour.



redone 7 17

wen fer

wen fer lunch,
place 20, count 'em 20
miles, long down on the straightaway.

going and coming back, also,
cause they more to dis story..
musta ha'seen over four...call 'em
five, cars on the road.

I'm tellin' ya...somethin' goin' on
right hereabouts in Ohio.
i'm happy as darn about it.
Eat chur corn, Roy.

eyebrows are

eyebrows are so
you can look startled
curious, interested,
or angry

eyelids are for winking
and closing out light
the part of the night
when you're sleeping

crying is for babies
and feeling better, after

the antique clocks run a week;
how often i must wind them.

booming

95 and humid a third day.
clouds belly down and booming
at noon, drop a fortune of water;
gardens are not opposed.

heat

the extreme heat of this afternoon
creeps inside where it's cooler
and gets me sleepy
at least for a nap's worth

cell phone dilemma

major red alert,
cell phone is missing -
the pulse of my life line.
gone but not forgotten.

went back where i had coffee.
questioned everyone repeatedly.
most seemed honest in their replies.
evidently i didn’t leave my phone there.

staggered home dejected.
instead of crying right away,
dumped big trash can in the drive.
two cops driving by stopped to watch.

i put it all back,
took a half hour,
searching the sticky mess
a piece at a time.

then brilliant idea
struck like lightening. wow.
i asked the cops to call my cell number
and put it on speakers in their car.

if the rat face sleaze at the coffee place answers
i’ll recognize his wheezy, whiny voice.
from the squad car they let me dial,
misdialed my cell number several times.

chatted with interesting people,
talked longer with the nice ones
a few wrong numbers were angry,
cops were growing impatient.

i suggested, “Lend me a dollar, i’ll call
for a medium pizza, split it three ways,
if you drive us to pick it up.”
cops were unhappy.

head down, i kept dialing.
finally got the right number.
two seconds later
my pocket rang.

a.

tumble and never fall
clouds do

b.

i hate cloud poems
with the word fluffy in



.

wellington

Wellington, a forgotten town
a line drive 22 miles east of Norwhere
where 18 crosses 58...
the heart of nothing special but goodness.
an old, tin-pressed ceiling cafe is large, welcoming.
no music, no TV, the hum is locals talking quietly.
cheery Karen from the other day seats us.
glassed in, on the corner over coffee we view
big-rig, cross-town traffic,
the action at the center of the berg.
sipping, we decide how to take two eggs
with two pancakes...too early
for too many decisions; no rush,
all is well...in Wellington

every 17 years

near Shiloh
The other day we heard them...
like crickets, over the hill somewhere.
I pointed so she would know
what hill they were over.

M said,"Those are locusts. They live in the
ground and come out every seventeen years."

I really glared at her. "I know that...
do you think I'm stupid?"

She paused, looked toward the hill,
then said, "That's a dumb question."

open window

slept by an open window,
dreamed poetry
until sunshine ran over it
and left me plowed.

good day, some say, sometime;
sunshine, here's to you
from the bottom
of my heart.

dream from where

often i have dreamed poetry,
a few words, an idea.
when writing poetry every day
my dreams were poetry ideas,

then in the morning
i'd write from those ideas.
last night i dreamed mdf: 236748,
mdf: 566924, mfg: 73479

there was a paragraph space
then another series of letters and numbers.
i had a page of these letters and numbers
all single spaced and

still sleeping i noticed what i was reading.
it was a print out i had been reading;
after a bit of time i was still sleeping when
i noticed what i was reading/dreaming

don't know what it was
but when i woke i remembered
this strange dream
and wrote it down.

the cart

Walking into Walmart
I put my cane aside when
a mysterious voice said,
"Use the cart, Luke...use the cart."

dandelions are

dandelions are
good; so very, very good.
good wine, they're edible,
bright in spring, rich in
vitamins A, C, iron and calcium,
health benefits include
relief from liver disorders, diabetes,
urinary disorders, acne, jaundice,
cancer and anemia; also for
maintaining bone health, skin care
and as a benefit in weight loss;
they're cheery to look at,
and naturally, people want to kill them
so double-damn bad.

a half hour down to Shiloh

M was inside getting plants
i was standing by the car
an old man in jeans, jacket and straw hat came out.
we talked a few minutes about
the good spring weather finally here,
the noisy storm we had last night.
i told him we lived in noralk, in town,
about here to that buggy behind the fire department.

he went on down to his buggy
an old woman wearing a long dress and bonnet
came out and joined him.
they turned the fine horse around
and began to leave.
as they passed by,
he and i wished each other a good day,
and they rode away.

big maket

m went into the store,
i waited in the car, reading, window open.
many people walking in the lot,
heard this constant, serious, deep-voiced, hushed monotone.
an older guy a short distance away,
standing between two dark cars,
ball cap on, talking, shoulder up,
neck angled, holding something to his ear,
speaking into this brown,fuzzy thing,
like a cover so i couldn't see the phone,
his eyes darted ahead and around.
an undercover job going down?
heard his voice, couldn't make out the words,.
waited for the swat team to drop from the sky.
after ten minutes nothing happened.
then i saw ball cap guy is holding
a small, fuzzy dog to his ear,
and never shut up.

safety first

they have barricades on bridges
high enough so driving over
you won't look at the water
and drive into the river

so why not up and down the streets of towns
don't they erect walls on each side
so bright colors on fancy-dressed manikins with new shoes
won't cause you to make a right turn
and drive over parked cars, through the store windows?

Paul Simon

Paul Simon you wrote the
words and melodies for so many;
and today I woke with one your songs
dancing in my head, smiling inside me

The Cleveland Orchestra

The New York Times declared
"America's most brilliant orchestra"
in Oberlin's Finney Memorial Chapel
the most extraordinary
Cleveland Orchestra

filled us with music;
sweet, clear and precise.
we gave them attention,
they gave to our hearts.

code red

how many passwords
are in my head?
keep scrambling
code master

uncertain

here is april in ohio
when alternate days of snow and rain do bring
weather still uncertain
if it's winter or it's spring

sometime skys are like that

look at them, rolling rain-heavy dark clouds,
a giant, scattered stripe in the east
across a blue sky background.

she wanted to take a picture
was driving, so she pointed instead.
i looked and remembered.

low sun, long fields
a wow to see
this good Ohio morning.

coffee and i see

coffee and i see
the day before yesterday's snow out the window.
silent as all get out;
a nothing special morning...
that's what makes it special.

winter lake walk

beige lake, movement in gray
sparkling streaks on surface,
few white gulls, under wing makings dark blue ,
held on the wind, banking, dipping like kites.

winds hum...a hollow sound
over golden fields, under azure sky
tops of passing cars are seen beyond fields
low clouds trimmed in gray, follow in a line like a train

small voice of child passing, marching behind dad
infrequent words spoken - sunny, cool
few blowing leaves, short cropped fields
thin woods, brown trees, little shade

still, cold

still, cold,
third day in ohio
january ending
expecting weather like winter

three minutes in the store
in shiloh, m shops
i'm waiting in the car, making notes
shopped a swiss mocha to drink

cool out, do doubt
morning on a bright sun saturday
what a day - so clear
between snows

birds

among my favorite life forms
are birds - in an out, on their way;
no time for exchange with me.

they have agendas that can be
loosely categorized as seasonal behaviors:
young meet, maybe dance a bit,
never socialize with in-laws, mate, build nests
keep the eggs warm, bring food for the kids
instruct them on living; to hunt and peck,
gather food and head south for the winter.

when I'm around they land on the fence
check me out, then go,
not a deep relationship to build on.

to their credit: you know, they
never, ever, have a worried expression on their face;
no lips could be the reason.

eyes are open (have three eye lids)
blink fast and do their things.
their big plus is: wings -
they sure can fly.

a northern hemisphere poet

A Northern hemisphere poet i am
in winter cold, summer heat,
  technology has taken my words around the world
i'll remain where i was born.

in january snow, frozen water
april showers, colorful flowers;
spring off to summer heat
fall leaves golden, falling, crackling,

thanksgiving then christmas
'til the end of the year
when begins another.
short days to long ones.

good sun, wobbling earth
summer for baseball
winter for snow balls and ice skating -
cycle long and short days.

when hundreds of years asleep at near light speed
to another planet, new ways to learn;
leave me the old fashion ways
in days i know...where i'm from.

through the silent halls of time
i'll take mine as i know them;
now before you go off in a flash,
one thing, please, take out the trash.

Norwhere where

the lake is a pond, half-mile long,
sans clouds,wind, birds or fish jumping.
mid-afternoon reflects trees on the opposite side
a slight blur of red and blue in light haze sky.
still the water, absolutely
this beautiful prewinter day
quiet, lovely as can be, i say.

sunshine is
relatively quiet

so is moonlight

come on, dogs

come on, dogs, get up
you are needed to work today
to fill the spaces on the line
assemble good order

no surprises
be kind to all around you
and slave, dog, slave
like every day

you are wanted to glue everything together
keep it running.
run dogs, run.
lick your ears on your own time

organize

i told m. i was organizing my poems, notes and writings;
she pointed to the kitchen and said
she was going to turn old coffee grounds
into gold coins.

what it ought to be

In the shade of the sun
on the porch today

after a back and forth summer for decent weather;
now it is here – warm and pleasant.

Sitting, comfortable, enjoying
what summer ought to be.
dance with the sun

11 June, 2015

Outside the country store
not many sounds
a car, a shopper
distant birds, chickens.
not much going on this Thursday morning;
good June sun, still air.
smells of summer, over all.



re. the above
We drove the quiet road straight south twenty minutes to get there, where we call - in the country. The Amish area.
Quiet and peaceful, a warm summer day. There were bird sounds I didn't recognize. I was standing in the sun by the car waiting for M to pick up a few things when this scene appeared before me, for me. Then and there I was in the middle of it, just looking around, happily for a few minutes when I realized, then and there, this was the good stuff of life. I wrote it down then to preserve it.

spring collection

for the season here's a collection of words for Spring.


spring off

as Ohioans we are accustomed to temperature extremes
i remember my mom telling me that in 1937 it snowed on
the fourth of july
weather change is the wild goat that lurks before it charges
now this year spring is May
we can go ahead and pencil it in

after winter's farewell snow
on gusty winds entered the warmer air with a
deep blue sky as backdrop for mammoth clouds tumbling fair
unleashing lawns, trees, bushes and flowers, nesting birds and buds
fresh and underway
nature reborn
this new season has begun

you can water golf courses and keep them pristine
but it's nothing, nothing like the clean
gleam of full young spring

spring arrived
wore my big coat the other day
spring arrived just yesterday
it blew in on silent wings
and hovered above the neighborhood
before wrappinig down around us

now it's hot, in a t-shirt today
i heard the boys call outside playing
there are green buds
and singing birds nest building

it's sometimes still winter
after the snows melt
but i'm sure
it's steady spring at last
when i leave a window open

the shallow cove

the shallow cove narrows
by brushes and thickets
our old row boat sparkles
under sunned running waters

when spring floods the low lands
all return and rebuild
for memories run deeper
than fat fish go up stream


spring to chaos

spring to chaos
stuffed with energy
here to the brim, back again
carried by people
in sighing light wind
laughing brght colors
leaping over piazzas
honking from buses
blue shadow and makeup
wine served with pizza
the short-skirted on mini-stilts
tap-tap clicking down old alleys in heels
checkered cloth and waiters
bells chime the hour
to the cobblestone sun
coffee at outside tables
amid smiling faces
talk a lot


folly of spring

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

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

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

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


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





after winter's farewell snow
on gusty winds entered the warmer air with a
deep blue sky as backdrop for mammoth clouds tumbling fair
unleashing lawns, trees, bushes and flowers, nesting birds and buds
fresh and underway
nature reborn
this new season has begun

chill dawn

chill dawn
on the road to shiloh.
a violet, rose haze,
with blue on edges of far fields.

1844 written on the house on a rise,
other old homes 
blanketed in vinyl.
all barns red, newly covered in tin.

there's no balloon on earth
like the fiery red sun
rising in all her glory,
beginning the new day.

on cool morning

opened my eyes at five,
thinking as if awake
listening to light wind stirrings,
while drops tap the window
evenly marking time

then seven-thirty in red clock numbers
may have been creating during the interval,
dream-thinking, planning, being practical,
but not overly confident of value gain,

took no notes while considering,listening to rain.
thoughts may have been of value;
with nothing written
there's no way to say.

how comfortable to awaken early, thinking softly,
from under a soft comforter,
hearing drops and splatters beyond the glass
all that matters...on cool morning

gee and i

in rome it is easy to see the permanence
or lack there of
as time inches on.

at juliano's, on our street,
street of the hatmakers, of which
there are no more, not now, they have gone
to wherever old hat makers go when they are
too old or tired to make hats or dead.
some think you are never
too old to make a hat.
but it wasn't a hat maker who said it.

gee and i had lunch today
was Giano, now gee, what friends call him.
he's my friend, though
i don't understand him, or who he is
but we're friends and had lunch.
tonarelli and tuna, juliano made it
it was very good
gee called juliano a sommelier
i didn't know he knew that word
a lot of surprises

other times gee and i have stood around
caught a little sun, leaned against the
old stone wall being quiet, mostly...
he speaks the roman street dialect
as do all his friends, except me.
i learn a little, he gives me some,
because i have asked for it. i live here too.

today when i was leaving
he said go easy,i said i alway do
out of the blue he said,
"chi va piano e sano va lontano"
he who goes slowly and sane goes far.
this is gee the street tough, my friend

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