mon

the Monday pickup trash day in Norwhere.
you know how it goes
we're not there
so it isn't serious.
though a slow day of
rain and snow-melt
in the depths of my soul
i hear the train call
to wake me in the middle of my heavy thought
i turned once, remained quiet.

we were rated the number two radio station in los angeles.
i asked him what he wanted,
our program director doubted we could be number one.
i delivered in top fashion.
in a year we became number one in los angeles.
with the largest radio audience in america.

with eyes open i lay figuring what is next.
wait and see i say to myself
wait and see
intention. 

posture

sit up straight.
i'm not the one to be giving orders,
however, it is a point worth mentioning.
don't slouch;
stand tall as you can.
leave the others to do what they may.
be proud of your self.
so, that means a little smile is necessary.
now get along and be the best you can.

colding

this happened today
18 degrees only.
tomorrow and the week ahead
warmer weather they say.
slightly warmer,
but just enough to mention it ...
maybe that much.

snow moon

there's a snow moon,
an old moon.
the glow moon
 you'll see

i'm on board.
will hang on tight.
as the moon is bright.
look beyond the swirling clouds
into the twisting light;
wait for me.

deer out

3:00 the world was silent

got up to see five large deer

on the lawn in heavy snow.

all sound stopped.

a good quiet

blanket

blanket white, can't see rolling as you go on, out far, lost in pale colorlessness.
 i can hardly distinguish a shade.
winter, there you are
lying down outside.

headline news

headline news
has me confused
had eggs for breakfast
one piece of toast
eating better ... less, not more.
it's Tuesday, a theatrical play tonight.

so many stories
from around the world.
talking the news thing.
not trump the buffoon.
he can squeak his own wheels.

hello my friends.
dear hearts.
did i tell you i can't find the sixty dollars of paint i bought in december.
i need to paint a bit,
and put writing in order.

let me think pizza, some,
decent pizza;
it is appropriate
to put on my mind.
the rest of life and the news will fit around it.

three feb

monday 3 feb, outside is warm.
no snow,  it's not like i've seen.

how could i, why should i
talk about the warm?

because february never
happened like this before.
when i repeat myself,
it's because i'm rattled.
that's good, because i'm paying attention.

warm

winter is too warm.
can do harm.
we may never know.
wait and see.

another sandwhich

made a sandwich

like the other day.

called it lunch,

returned to pick up

where i found a good rhyme ... 

only i forgot 

the good rhyme, 

it was nowhere 

to be found.

a once a year rhyme 

turned its back on me, 

jumped ship. 

special because i  don't often dwell in rhyme. 

so when i find a good one 

like this, it is exceptional.

now what is exceptional is: 

i lost it. 

seemed evident i'd find it 

waiting for me. too large an occasion 

to be overlooked. so i made this note

to exhibit the importance

of my lost rhyme.
sadly, didn't help.
if i can recover
i will.

could

forget winter for now,
there is no cold or snow;
although next week could change everything.
i'll be eating oatmeal and looking out the window.
meanwhile, i could read, paint or write
all day, all night.
see how it goes.
change everything,
work in different sizes,
paint on the wall instead of canvas.
you think?

between

sure in between,
not cold or warm ...
thinking lunch.

had a sandwich.
no snow coming.
this is late january.

hardly gets below freezing at night.

new snow

flakes float down.
a few, enough to make us feel
it is practically winter ...
and enough
to wind out January ...
all we're going to get.

Mail

this mail delivery person is a guy.
took it out of his hand.
i got it as he smiled.
seemed easy.

however, i missed a package on the porch.
didn't see it.
and another in the mailbox...
didn't check.

thought how things got messed up.
kept going over the mental list,
thinking of stuff piled on.
jeeze o-pete.

deer here

three deer walked in our yard.
large, confident animals.
quiet...a team.
don't see them every day,
i thought then i would.
now three or four days later,
i'm waiting their return.

not wit

what a nitwit
shot john lennon...
who would have grown.
at least john had time with the beatles.

now the world waits;
for only now and then
even the great ones find a voice
that expands world wide.

them squirrels

one tree out there, by the window.

2 brown squirrels, small to medium.
don't get me wrong, they are both the same size;
between small and medium.

here's how they partner up:
one's runs down on the left side;

the other, the other.

they stick their heads in the snow,

dig around, come up with a nut.

a frosty way to eat.

i'm cold watching them chew.

cold and flurries, january,

week four, week to go,

this is january 20, 2020.

snow some

it's cold,
not way, but enough.
wind and light snow tonight,
they say.

radical clipping

i was in the mood for it.

Bill told where, so i went.
to the bangladeshi part of town, piazza vittorio.

for a shave and a haircut.
a bus ride got me there.

two barber shops'
side by side.'
walked into one less busy.

all seemed well,
the barber asked me how he should cut it.

i looked at him.
told him, "you're the barber."

i sat down got a sheet over me and he went to work on my hair.
with a shampoo, a big cut...a big change for me.

he did well.
radical, modern, but i took it.

thought about it...

figure i'd do it again next month

if i was around.
if i could find his shop.

wound tight

the string's off my dad's violin.
It leans against the wall,
not used now at all.

he played the songs.
the parties lasted long...
what nights of fest.

how they enjoyed laughter.
casual, no strain.
together in loving refrain.

so then...

I found more poems, and plan to sort them
while waiting for the strange winter to straighten
itself out. For now, there is no snow. This is the
warmest of Januarys I have seen. Clouds have
been heavy and colorful.

darkness

take this morning
while i was sleeping,
twisting in dream
then glanced at the clock;

could've jammed more thoughts in
but chose not to.
rather break from doing.
just rest, wait and see.

The mark

a new year
begins easily as a smudge
on the wall.
watch it now...holy cow,

see it hanging near the calender.
it's a circular plastic thing you set the piano wheels on. Circle, plastic - got it?
legs are in the air,

wheels on on the disc.
things okay.
move the piano.
smooth as my dentist.

now the piano won't
gouge into the floor.
can you dig it?
poems go well when you think about 'em.

streets alive

this day in rome
passed Jonathan of the Angels;
we looked in a flash.
both of us nearly
fell over, turning back
and smiling to shake hands.
been missing that face
I've known 25 years.
dog gone, he's out there looking good.
Good to see you, jonathan.


then the beginning of piazza navona
the print maker i've not seen thirty years,
we smiled and waved, and
it was so good to see the man again.
we both so much aged
but his face i know.
been a while since the last time we waved.

for many years
buffete due has been
pleasing to us.
gentle service, good cooks.
then it fell apart this trip
the second and the third times.

i'm crippled so
 no cost for any museum.
we only need
decide where and when.
did a poor job deciding
when to half the venizia,
and quit there.

saw Gii passing in the crowd,
he didn't see me.
Caught up,
Shook hands.
two other times he got by
drifting...out of gear.

then franco walked by. the next day,
Slippery as ever.
mario, brother of gii, said hello.
always a nice guy

saw roberto from the window.
lello is around this neighborhood.
talked to giacomo's brother, sandro.

graziano, and pino his friend.
angelo and simone.
a tight ship.

danella, gian, paula work
at cisternino.

the old man still sells prints near piazza navona.
thought he recognized me,
second time he didn't.

bright out

new year day month,
floating in my morning mind.
It looks like rain, didn't happen.
i used to look at the newspaper..
read some top stories anyway.

i'm ready. so is the coffee.
you know how quiet that makes the morning
when i'v got a cup i like.
sipping and looking out the window.
thinking of old times, happy to recall.

drifting again. salute with a bright smile.
making the morning look right.
know there is more.
the sky is clearing.

now i'm lightly spinning without direction,
never was my way.
need to figure the morning, where to go.
i'll get there. where i'm going. nothing changes.

rain on

take a steady winter rain,
enjoy the dreamy patter.

tail end

the whole thing is nearly over.
dot  all the i's, cross a few t's

did the year
start by slipping along quickly...
seemingly well oiled...
month after month.
quicker than I imagined...

is this an interrogator?
a part of speech.

moved right along. daily.
did you see it go by?

rain about

not enough to hardly say
more than a word about...i can
hold out my hand and feel
a drop i suppose...have to
walk down to the porch,
and it's early for that.  but '
i can hear it. that's the
best part...well, writing
 is good so you can
see it. all i've got to say is:
pretty damn warm for the
 last week in december. 

day beyond

Blank, oh
starting empty
and there is gladness for whoever needs it...
day after Christmas

speeding horse-drawn buggy
she's off and we're going to breakfast.
we pulled out lighter coats to wear.
we should be staring at each other...questioningly.

partly cloudy 62.
instead of buckling down for a snow storm.
it's off to shelby then to Planktown.
i wait in the car and watch

as five guys are
taking the old roof off,
putting on a new one.

slam bam, day after Christmas, it's sunny and dry.

world holiday

woke sneezing...
left-over cold held me tight.
It's not right,  it's time to move on.
for goodness sake
 Yeah, time to move on.
where are you?
forget about the cold business.

my dad was in the coal business.
folks shoveled coal into stoves to heat their homes. 
imagine winters like that?
i remember. i was born into it.

now, today, we're doing Christmas eve.
no snow anyway.
put your sleigh away, daniel.
plus, here's another thing,
we've turned the corner with the shortest day of the year.
so look ahead.
no need to shed a tear. summer is on the way-o.
we'll love the days ahead.
ole'  ole'

a.m. i am

i feel like corn on the cob.

riding around in the wagon with my pals

getting smashed up all day.

or this may be morning thinking.

give me some coffee and a half hour,

i'll put this all together.

times

many the times
we've  walked worn
grey, stone lines
alternating shadow and slips of sun,
a town rough to touch
smooth on the heart
under cold night lights or sun.
going to sit now and think about it.
here's a place.
ice cream and coffee.
just right in this
city of my dreams

been there

not too cold for Christmas.

but you want to have a picnic
better get a space heater
sunshine if it's daylight
and reindeer if it's Christmas.
go ahead, you choose.
the shoes is on your foot.
many options open.
so pick one, or not to be.
it's your wagon.
i think you can do well.

fish and hibi

had fried fish
small and entire,
at a table
in the sun, just off the street;
with a good glass of wine.

next day we crossed ponte sisto,
saw hibi and his bride.
that was a treat ... he reappeared.
i wish them well.

we see

seems late in the season.
give a reason
for thinking again
about ducks flying over ...
rather work a while, eh?
they do have a strong voice.
sweet if you're not too close.
power in a honk.
nothing sweet about it.
need a lake.
let ducks fly.

***

noon rain,
take it or leave it?
come and get it.
set your watch ...
missed today, good.

arista, pork roast and spinach

on vittorio emanuale
a 46 took us away.
 1200: bells chimed.
 may rain this 2 jan 2020

sirens as we crossed the river.
our bus crowd had gained strength.
everyone heard  the loud man with a voice squished, as he kept  talking.
a street car bell from a century ago sounded once sharply, sweetly.

we were aboard with
 a good bus crowd. stirred up.
privately we had anticipation of lunch 
i saw gorganzola on the menu and knew i would order it.

fury falls

inside is always silent.
a sound tight apartment we've rented.
from inside we heard the rain.
looked out to see a storm unleashed,
pounding like no other we've seen.
a memory rain apart from all others.

changed form

went to Trionfale, the market,
along our way,
at a corner
i met a Bangledeshi

speaks five languages
talks to people on the street,
small groups,sells them tours.
that's a slick talker.

angelo, simone

we don't
wake early
as they.
start in motion.

give joy,
serve all the potion...
in good attitude
day after day.

oh, they do;
and do again.
people keep coming back.
they make a visit there a pleasure.

four- twenty a.m.

four-twenty a.m. and i’m thinking poetry
in absolute silence
words run by
then piano phrases enter my head
for Some Enchanted Evening,
hearing Enzio Pinza sing some lines
it’s a heck of a way to wake up

and it’s nearly dawn,
street lamps still on
i'll make coffee in a while,
think of other things.
good morning world
how are you?

no rain tonight

running dry.
cool and okay.
on the road
low and our way.
see more silver
hollow help us,
heavens hold on.

tell me true.
turnover, take a right.
slow down will ya.
walking. on we go.
tenderly, so tenderly.
...
 rolling words on
and on.

where ya be?

my poem readers,
lookers for sure,
who or where
i have no idea.

***

i read new
poems daily,
warm and donut fresh,
sweet, no sugar,
with the scent of angels.

calm water

another rain day,
complete. inside
looking out.
then dress for
water everywhere.
gallons of it. more
 than seems reasonable.
hear splashes, patter.
dripping. splatter. drops.

i keep my neck covered,
don't need drafts...heard that somewhere, thought it seems reasonable;
getting comfortable.

it's winter, that counts a lot.
keeping from thinking chocolate.
 sounds desperate but
i'm just working away from candy,
when i call it candy i want to leave it alone.

new rain

warm day,
new rain
comin' this way
they say;

got to figure
if afternoon
brings wet falling,
like i hear
as they tell me,

we'll see...
bring umbrellas,
and count on it.

on the way

met some time ago.
we talk now and then.
while years have passed
ticking easy time
slowly off the clock,
his mom is ill,
he's off to see her
wish all the  best.

world spins,
moves again
don't need acres
of words rolling on.
write clean on steel:
cold and true.
when you call that guy's my friend,
like me and you.

Travel in

cold morn
sun'll be heatin' by noon,
then i'll dump my jacket.

coming now cruisin' low on the center line,
semblen a limousine;

them dark windows showin' a
car full of importance.
with a tight group ridin' in.

some know where they goin',
some just know how to get there.
careful: don't overload your plate.

main stay

here with partial net
and wit i go round
seeing old acquaintances.
finding value in talks some.

o - well

football on tv,
where it ought to be.
don't want to pay to sit outdoors.
cold enough outside,
so i'm inside
reading two good books
back and forth.

i follow the weather out the window.
visionally.
anything thing can happen,
write that down.

broken arrrow

yes, good morning
i noticed old man former
quarterback Terry Bradshaw
is 3 years younger than i am.

yet happilly, in all my years at work no one
ever tackled me.
i'll have oatmeal, please.
and rye toast.

wake up and
before you know
you're driving by Walmart.
in very light snow.

five minutes later the coast is clear.
fewer cars, nearly zero big trucks.
coffee and donuts always near.

traffic build up keeps happening
like ticking on the clocks
that used to tick, years ago.
now what do they do...hum?

in fields near the lake
it's time geese get on their way,
they see it's nearly winter
by watching the fields they fly over.

blew in

wasn't a blaster,
just light scattered flakes;
still early in the season.
seemed could'a laid out a mess'a snow but didn'.
gettin' ready...i suppose.
maybe next time.

preview

drove for breakfast in the country.
a glaze of snow far off
will be coming in this afternoon,
to winter us a preview
of how it's going to be,

as the best fires, best cookies and best

books keep us company.


.

poem for us

what poetry means
are soft words
how we feel
blanket warm
in light of dawn

morning more still

notice how quiet
now pouring November
pies on the table
holidays you remember

fix it

fix the house
look around
there’s more to do

buy another house
you’ll fix that too

they fix everything but the great pyramid,
probably fix that too,
just don’t tell anybody

no deer

3 starlings and a blue jay.
 seen while we
talk about the deer
we've not yet seen
but know they're near

five robins in the yard
now this 5 november.

sunshine in the fall
on the wall
on the floor, steady.
chipmonks  outside;
running, stopping, looking
in the autumn rush.

loud noise

27 august 1883
the loudest noise our
planet has ever heard.
circled the earth four times.
if you were nearer than
ten miles from Krakatoa exploding
you'd be deaf.
floating pumice fields 10 feet deep
clogged ports,
there was so much ash thrown in the sky that in Nicaragua, on the other side of the Pacific, the sun was blue. 

Janny squeeze

‘bout squeezed all the January
we’re goin’a get out of it;
can’t even cut off some of the rind;
no scent left to save for later.

so tell me, did you use this first
month of our new year as expected
or did you even think ahead at all
‘bout how you wanted it to unfold?

planning seems to go along fine,
right up to a point, and then;
there’s that certain amount of stuff,
call it stuff, that just happens.

that’s when best wishes come in.
so go ahead why don’t cha,
try again. that's where the circular
motion of the planets comes in.

***

so this is from last January
but never left the shoot.
 but nevcr got out the door.
  but was late leaving the gate.

yes, we move

best we can.

birds in the marsh.
perch a long while.
are they thinking
while they're waiting?

meanwhile, what can we do?

we've cooler temperatures,
wouldn't call it cold yet.
'cept bedtime,
or first thing in the morning.

yeah, well, good thing i've a list.
where to go,
what to get.
keeps order, don't you know.

you just get it together.

nearly winter fields

a geese flock 
lifts off at once.
it is time they are on their way,
geese can tell it's coming winter by
the look of the farm fields they fly over

downish

on the porch

in silence,
feeling off mark.
summer heat rising

i look to the sky,

the mighty cumulonimbus clouds.

fat, jolly, slow rolling,
out of control.

my spirit lightens with the sight
in the afternoon light,

i smiled.

what delight.

seeing Tim

at the tree dedication for Chris and Jesse,

Tim, you said hi, and we moved on.

i was surprised. i haven't been home for a while,

people don't often know me.

i can't drive to your years ago place in Rye Beach.

won't find you in the non-existing phone book.

can't go back in time for a Monday to see you in school.

so here we are.

my brother thought your dad the greatest coach.

i had him for one civics class.

he told us we had one thing to learn in that class,

he wrote it on the chalkboard, 

1066, The year of the Battle of Hastings.

no one has ever asked me when it occurred,

he didn't teach us about that turning point in history,

but, because he said to, i'll always remember the year.

your dad was a heck of a fine guy.

nether be

Netherlands has returned;
all 200, well, 197 souls

reading my blog every day.

the new counting system has engulfed me

smoothing these pages of time and mention,

thought i'd say.

in addition, i see you again.

Netherlands i've regained you.

don't know why. a nice place.

all fine i say

see solid blue up there.
not a cloud in the sky
simply quiet without a breeze, 
while we're running through October.

in reds and yellows
pure as gold that gleam
in yards, on streets.
leaves rolling in a stream

counting

what happened Netherlands?

200 souls reading my blog every day are gone.

a new counting system engulfed me

smoothing these pages of mine,

in addition, i saw the subtraction

of the Netherlands from the list.

a nice place. two weeks of

a few museums, Van Gogh,

art and science.

oh, tulips. Springtime.

we came during the right week.

sailed off on the great cargo ship Isadora

for America, with Captain Z,

Ralpho. a crew of twenty,

a good time.

a life-time adventure.

b.

this will put it right

my blogger control is out of hand.

why did i unfasten the gears?

even this is double spaced...why?

rain'll

waiting for the rain
they say is on the way;
dandy, eh?
i like it.

dark grey now.
lights'll be on
soon, baby, soon.
starting to look pretty out there.

our times

after food and shelter are satisfied
seek beauty in your life
keep order in your space
everything in its place

appreciate the out of doors
complete your chores,
stay within the lines
do your best, enjoy the times 

 

 

at Tuesday, December 09, 2008

anon

Anonymous said ...

Superb blog! Do you have any recommendations for aspiring writers?
I'm planning to start my own website soon but I'm a little lost on everything.

Would you suggest starting with a free platform like Wordpress or go for a paid option? There are so many choices out there that I'm completely overwhelmed ..
Any suggestions? Thanks a lot!

anon? aspiring?

begin writing each day,

or so often you're confused

and it seems you are.

i use Blogger, it is free or

they haven't sent me a bill yet.

about twelve years, so they are tardy.

i write because i do, not for money.

that's fun to say. i suppose if i blogged

for cash i'd have quarters all over the table by now.

MandyTwo, could i have more coffee

and a bill, please.

say, anon, you have offered a good comment;

my suggestion to you is; read and write. enjoy yourself.

thank you, anonymous.

make a name for yourself.

Sound of day and nite

at last the quiet
sound of afternoon
is holding low, i feel so near.

so soon the evening
running through the grass
in small steps touches my heart.

soft night train

no screeching last night.

in breaths of quiet, light wind
the train pattered in grandma’s slippers
sliding along the linoleum kitchen floor,
hardly going anywhere 

and the whistle was not a blaster,
instead it gave soft puffs
like puh, with a long breath between the next muh.
muh, ma, as if needed to be picked up and cuddled

at Wednesday, November 05, 2008 1 comments

memory drawn - bused up

 

Monday, December 28, 2009

bused up

bused up
on the little bus
to the hill over Rome, Gianicolo,
where the noon cannon is fired

ever since the pope back in 1847
wanted his churches to
all know what time it was,
at least once a day

a crowd gathered to hear it
the cannon is loud
wasn’t precisely noon
should have covered my ears

then walked warm weather down
to old Trastevere
where our new favorite restaurant
was tried and confirmed

while walking back traffic was stopped
a helicopter hovered overhead
we waited to watch
something was about to happen

one cop called it a VIP cortege coming by
his word not mine
some Italian cops are literate
glad to hear it, anytime

fifteen cars and as many motorcycle police
and more police afoot every corner
all the way home they go to the Vatican
because the pope king went out for lunch

event over, we walked home
didn’t stop traffic
and didn’t cause any trouble either
as we shuffled along, all the way home

my cell phone has a clock on it
i could have told anyone the time
but no one asked
they must have heard the cannon

target

i wrote to my classmates,

this gave me a place to shoot my arrow.

with a target in mind i felt better.

the package contained reason.

years ago i knew i needed a target.

i let the idea escape me,

now i feel the tank again is filled.

put me on the road again..

also, thinking of poetry i've read

and parts i didn't like,

makes me feel better when my own weakness

i discover lying there in the street.

work in sandstone

watching young men
work with sandstone;
chip it out, lay it in place.

designing a walk in pieces.
to last if not forever
at least for a very long time.

Paradox - some places have poetry on or coming out of them

some places have poetry on or coming out of them
i’ve found them by carefully examining small beach stones,
under trees and near water, on forgotten notes in the pockets
of jackets i haven’t worn for a while,

i found poetry on city streets, especially at corners,
in crowded stores when the music’s not too loud
or on buses, on hot days or in rain or snow.
when vehicle gears shift and someone is directing traffic,

i feel poetry when i’m there, later, or passing by
no telling why it is so, a fireplace helps,
the coffee shop when the dream starts, or birds fly
a cloud tilts a certain way, how the waitress
places the menu down and walks
already a block away in her mind,

i feel poetry in the touch of polished old hand rail,
while taking a soft carpeted stair
and in the colors in a painting,
a landscape i once saw in a museum
that reminds me of poetry
in some place i want to be

and, about you,

do you feel poetry today?

alarm some

much alarm about the harm

dividing a nation can do

i'll be quick, makes me sick

wacka do, wacka do, wacka do

***

no candidate wants to surrender.

not hillary when

people wanted bernie.

not bernie with a heart attack,

not trump when people

aren't aware how government...

fumigate it all, please.

politics is clean when i run it

in my dream.

you can understand the lure...

wave money and power at a politician,

make them damn near royal;

yet we don't know it all,

what are we missing?

thanks for

thanks for stopping.

oh, the world is wide.

so much to see. rising,

falling, great is the tide.

my drop is company.

for both of us.

hold to the path.

we all lose our way.

clean water, clothes,

warm supper

made with love

and good intention.

crumbs a lot...for pleasure

i like two pieces

of toast in the afternoon.

at 18:07 i ate a sandwich m made.

will keep me looking out the window,

working or reading, wondering why
i can't put together another 

best poem. ingredients must be

here. rye toast. now, that got me

thinking. butter on top,

what it is, soulful surrender.

i misread seafood sensation.

thought before i read.

empty all pockets before

throwing pants in the wash.

man, i miss those maple trees.

grow overly large; however, do make a mess.

ok, i'm thinking about the above. it takes time to gel.

Sure red

there is color around,
fall sound cracking,
Practically out of dream,
all you wish to hear.

yeah to the cities
to the mountain streams west,

while here in the midwest
we take our fall dry
and consider it best.

may as well because
color is the coat we're wearing.

early evening

reading the news, occasionally 

glancing through the widow

to see the sun progress down,

thinking it comfortable,

convenient not having

to go out in public for work.

a renown sitar player performed

at a concert hall nearby,
i chose not to go.

supper was a tortillia with

chicken and cheese. quick and easy.

thanks, Meri.

i had a glass of red wine,

the first in a month,

now i am sitting quietly.

sometimes poems contain
no explosions.

bali

island jungle music
the islanders in waves of exploitation.
rapid rhythm gongs,
never heard music like it before
Oberlin college opens another gate
this is the strangest concert i've ever attended,
and i enjoyed it. i'mglad it ended when it did,
i can only take so much strange and bell sounds.
---
An 18-member ensemble weaves layers of intricate sound: the punctuation of deep great bronze gongs; charismatic leadership from the drums; stunning interlocking percussion from the bronze gangsa; and finely elaborated delicacy of voice and flute.
---
we go in the auditorium,
she wants to sit farther back this time.
i pick seats in the seccond half, middle.
the musician people come in and play.
it happens that fast.
strange music.  little gongs mostly.
some slapping and knuckle knocking on wooden drums.
indescrible. it goes on.

---

Internationally hailed as one of Bali’s most forward thinking music and dance ensembles, Çudamani is known for their exceptional creativity and superb artistry and also their unflagging love for the classical treasures of Balinese tradition. Nurtured and trained in the village of Pengosekan, the group is among Bali’s most respected and accomplished.

One of their many singular features is that many of their artists are multidisciplinary, mastering gamelan, dance, voice, and visual art resulting in artistically unified presentations.


The ensemble touches the soul with a program that spans the spectrum of human emotion, from sublime to fearless, from reverent to unapologetically playful. Çudamani intrigues the mind and heart and a radiant flash of their eyes invites you into the transcendent experience of Balinese gamelan and dance.

Gamelan Çudamani

rain september

fall rain is the best;
or i'm just saying
because it's so firm now,
happening, tapping
itself out like a song.
you're smiling.
  

thorn

returning from the mailbox didn't linger,

walking up the back steps...

i slipped...crabbed for the hand rail.

caught a large rose thorn with my finger.

told meri when she got back from the store,

she said to ask the troll people for help,

it's four o'clock and she has a game to watch.

my finger is blood smeared, i didn't yelp.

plain day

cherry pie and vanilla ice cream,
what's what i remember of lunch.
coffee too, that's it. that additional thing;
black coffee, no cream no sugar.

dry september

half-hour drive into the sun rise,

light traffic on the road.

found our slot in the lot behind the restaurant.

a breath of wind, calm autumn.

took a table along the back side.

place full up, yet easy going.

course we started with coffee.

slid into wednesday morning.

pancakes and eggs over,

rye toast and butter.

she did the driving,

picked up eggs at Planktown.

the way of rain

we're in a gap, a dry spell.
comes as a surprise, not thinking about it,
it's pouring or not.
then we simply forget and it dries up, hot.

i'd rather walk or drive in the country.
i know it'll be wet again soon.
that was yesterday, this morning i woke to wet all over,
light, clean, cool, it's raining.

make a line

if you have a parking lot
park all the yellow cars together,
see who notices and asks you why.
if we worked hard we could put together a load of ideas.

stack cars on top of others.
based on heaven knows what,
meaning: i can't figure how to do it.
one hand can hold your hair back.

start there, think what you like.
get a menu, you can pick and chose.
i'm looking around to see
what can be found.

there is one thing to say,
shake it out, dust it off.
next, we're on the border-line.
don't want to keep you waiting.

someone said  kind words about this writing
i'm grateful. i'll sit a while without a sound
taking time, it appears i'm thinking.
you're looking fine.  is that a distraction?

drag on

ok, so, for all who support me,
can you make toast, eh?

falling leaves in colors orange to red.
is that the order? does it matter?
this morning the sun is sparkling in my eye,
feeling good, warming. festive, practically.

and sipping coffee, thinking toast...
how about you...how you doing?
good morning...always a good start on the day.
what do you say, going my way?

i read some poems and was fascinated
by the thinking, or the ways i'm led
by what is said by word thinkers - writers.

some putting poems in their heads,
reciting to others...crash poems.
a bag full. i can only imagine, or listen
or read them.  a speed zone full.

hey, with sun in my eye i prefer
a slow hill climb, to the top,
taking it easy, geting my fill that a way.
taking time to think about it.

mr. safety town

mr. safety town i am.
but, let her drive anyway;
put my arm out for extra signal.
it 's fun riding with bare feet on the dash.

noise void

nothing hardly,

windows open,
no sounds in utter quiet.

old house to us blank empty,
barely anything,

sleep on mats,

clean echoes, zero to hear.

two street lamps across the street

shine all night on us
in our cottage in the woods.
why the lights?

apple cake

Thursday, September 03, 2009

apple cake

from a peg on the wall she took up
her worn canvas bag by the shoulder strap
said come on, we’re going to pick apples
near the corner across the street in the empty lot

there’s a neglected, half dragging to the ground,
poorly shaped, unremarkable old tree
not worth a glance,
and loaded with apples

we ate one to sample
half red, half yellow, a little strange to look at
but fresh off the tree
it was some old variety

forgotten, unattended and delicious apples
she filled the sack with a dozen or so
when she said she had enough,
we walked home

late that afternoon, after other tasks
by September sun streaming into the kitchen
she made an apple upside down cake
augmenting a vintage recipe found on the Internet

an hour after dinner
we each had a piece
of the best apple cake
i ever had tasted in my life




It would be too easy for M. and I to eat the whole thing, so I took the rest to my brother’s family. For us, there is always tomorrow.

at Thursday, September 03, 2009 2 comments Links to this post

the heights

Monday, September 21, 2009

to the heights

to the Heights, a country small town
nearby, yet aloof from modern ways
where farmers and country survive
and some of their kids go away to school in the cities
take jobs, live afar and return now and then
for holidays, alternate years

their folks stay on
in touch with the soil
clean, neat and country casual for a Sunday
standing tall as they can
walking leaning, a bit slower

these remaining have been small town friendly for years
know the families, names from long ago
and can recall some of the faces
now under the headstones
on the treed lofty knoll

there is a chicken barbeque today
at this conservation club
no telling what they are conserving
kindness and good will for sure

the building is set back on a large area in an otherwise field
the road in waggers as if the guys who dragged it out
changed their minds two or three times before
they settled on how to get from here to there

and the twenty or thirty cars already there
were parked in the field over a few acres
like dominoes thrown out of a box
and where they landed is where they sat
independent parkers they are

this yearly event we’ve been waiting for
three hundred tickets were sold they say
the money raised will keep the group going
about thirty folks there at the start when we were
maybe fifty
half again that number just neighborly helping out
i didn't try to count, they were spread out nicely

rear double doors were open to the beginning
of the green and rust colored stick crackling woods
in mild temperatures and near idle breeze
on the cusp of another change
summer to fall

had covered long tables, sturdy folding chairs
set with plenty space between to walk
and clean silverware, no plastic for
these folk of dirt, cast iron, seed and steel

the building’s maintained in good repair
someday they’ll pave straighten that winding road in
or sell the whole damn chuck to a developer, if and when

barbequed chicken was the draw today
and these hens were as large as small dogs
and twicet as tasty as you could ever imagine

spoke with old Reece, one of the volunteers
heard he deeded his downtown brick building
the decorative grey century one on Main
resplendent with curiosities and used books
to the local historical society

our common friend dick, who visited us in Rome
will be coming soon, here’s where he was raised
with a smile on his face and mud in his toes

today's group was quiet well mannered
stayed on the business of eating
and getting to the desert table
in no rush orderly fashion

i had a slice of crispy near warm apple pie
made from experience by Aldean
as she stood alone by her kitchen window
taking care and good intentions
thinking of her family while using well hewn skill
that would’a made her mother proud

after we did the deed on the chicken
during which time we made new acquaintances
and refreshed old ones
we waved goodbyes and moved on
out the door and beyond
into our own tomorrow

i am Wicks, i'll be your server tonight

Thursday, September 24, 2009

i am Wicks, i'll be your server tonight

well, Wicks, hi, i’d shake hands but
obviously, you’re moving too fast
i’m jack, but i’d prefer you call me grandpa
no one else does

well they do once in a while
but they live a half a planet away
grandpa jack is what they say, but
plain grandpa is more enduring don’t you think

my grandparents lived thirty minutes away
but people didn’t drive as much back then
a half century ago, one i’d see one once a year
the other i’d see Christmas and Easter

anyway, doesn’t matter to anyone now does it.
say, my sister Nita taught me to drive
when i was eleven in her old Oldsmobile on Rye Beach Road
i’ll have to ask her if she was married then

parts of the story are unraveling
and half the cast have gone away
i’ll look into that, gone away stuff,
someday, won’t we all

listen, Wax, you don’t mind if
i keep talking to you, do you?
not out loud, in my head, think talk like
blink if you can hear me

at Thursday, September 24, 2009 4 comments Links to this post

all to say

mom, your baby boy is old and crippled.
sitting on the porch when the mailman came,
heard the lid on the box close;
said hi but no reply,

talk too softly usually.

i told m, she got the mail from the box on the gate.
that's my poem for today,
full up, emptied out, all i had to say.

fred's in sausalito

how many do you want?
we knew the system.
the waitress drew on the order pad.
one circle for each pancake ordered.

weekends they came a long way
to order circles.
we walked a short distance
to order our circles.

sun over all

average starting day.
a nothing special time of the week.
a period of hours from
sun to sun, of this i speak.
pressure added, atypical.
look. there is sun.
warming. totally wonderful.
sun full of wonder.
oh, yes.
all you do is look around.

a trip

so soon it seems
to be back again,
it is called a trip
to the dentist.
hear me now: the guy is smooth.

August 1

First day thinking cold.
The season has rolled over.

calm

turning to fall, calm and grey.
a quiet day.

raining

it's raining drops heavy as rocks,

solid drum beats on the roof,
haven't heard tapping like that for a while;

rain enough to slow traffic.
the bubbling puddles come alive.

new post

don't know what day it is,
not the date or day of the week.
i can guess, and miss by a mile.
it's not important to me.
this is all good news.
now i can get paint out
and capture what i see in color.
sounds good, but won't happen.
here is where i will note the day,
in thought and words...okay.
they say it may thunder,
i hope it does; that's the kind of scary interruption i like.

song writer

seeing a song written out, music and words, is like seeing handwriting:
no matter how you feel about the song, when written down
you can gather a feeling for the writer.

paul mcartney, ned washington, paul simon, you and me.