this reality

this reality
as i see it
is ours
to gently mold.

each piece
a part of the whole.
remember to walk easy
as our lives develop.

you and i decode
the day,
whether wet
or cold

or ray of sun,
softly caressing our cheek
and behold -
the whole human race

taking parts
like flower petals
unfolding to become,
as wishes truly are our horses.

misdirected

I.

the seasons are variable.
don’t know if it is warmer before colder,
or colder before hotter.
close the window anyway.

hah, and you think this is a diary?
it is: of disinformation and the like;
with possibility to forecast severe weather, predict
elections and ball scores. still working on horse race results.

wait a minute, the window sticks.
i know it is the weather;
any weather will do, or won’t
– as in: window won’t open.

II.

the aggregate outlook remains unpredictable,
as churning beach sand under pounding waves,
turning clouds belly up, masking out the stars.
so dark now i have to count on my fingers.

III.

hah, and you think this is a dairy; nearly so.
we drive by a field with sheep each day
where the new ones are a plenty now.
we saw a mother lick off a tiny lamb just arrived.

good for the farmers and the 4H club.
they still have a hand on the soil, thank goodness.
rains are good for them
in reasonable measure.

IV.

you think maybe I just pull these poems out of a box
ha – a thousand times ha!
i grind this stuff out
the way someone grinds bones

okay, so i don’t know who grinds bones
but i’m sure where there’s money to be made
someone is doing it. so in warning:
watch your bones.

going, going

while taking the whistling graffiti marked train
the grey way across town, clack clack,
the exasperated bald headed man ten rows ahead angrily barks,
i hear every word of his cell phone conversation.

then from someone beyond,
through the door open to the train car behind,
paint peeling blaring terrible mechanical music
the kind of Steven King’s mad amusement park

got my attention;
redirected it inward, whir, clack, clack,
recalling bygone days when civil people
respected others space and tranquility.

what am i telling you for?
you don’t appear unaware to me,
you must have a modicom of sensitivity
hell, you’re even reading poetry.

robins - a lesson

I.

May isn’t easy.
not for all
as i saw
from the kitchen window.

chill wind blew as
wet slicked mother and father robin
work diligently in hard late afternoon rain
taking turns, to and from

the partially sheltered nest
to keep the kids protected,
parents fly off in turn, and then return.
dad just gave a worm to the young .

i watched as it
grew darker and cooler.
the rains slackened,
the robins didn’t.

II.

i would guess the two birds met recently.
i have no idea when or where.
maybe they were having a drink somewhere
or pulling on opposite ends of the same worm

they aren’t related, though maybe with robins it
doesn’t matter. genetically they aren't going anywhere.
from their dedication to each other
you would think they are star crossed lovers.

they have no religious ceremony, in fact,
no known religion, art or music.
only small nothings to each other,
and the humming of the earth.

no games or TV, can’t read. their apparent entertainment
is activity. seeing what is around, and the work they do.
they are here for the complete apparent purpose of
finding food and caring for their young.

salt and bar - my song

mr. safety town i am
but let her drive anyway,
and put my arm out for additional signal.
it rained well this May morn.

contractors said it must be done to code ,
electrical outlets every 2 ½ feet,
enough room heating ducts to fry bacon
cooling sufficient for a polar bear circus.

notes on life start with a B flat.
my times and observations,
write that down, some are joys
and, yes, aggravations. stay with me.

reviewing a few of my league deep of poems,
(that’s six feet in terms of water depth)
surprised myself, there are more than i recall
but the stuff is me, and i like water by the way.

make a note: sometime when i was a kid
i told myself i’d write a thousand,
figured it’d be about the number and it is.
so if the kid was a wiz – well, what the hell happened?

then the cell phone rings and they’re telling me
i win free digital hook up that is going to be required by law,
and M. is telling me to hang up cause it's costing money
on the cell phone; but they said we won something.

i guess i shouldn't trust telephoning strangers.
did they have my number
or was it a just lucky chance call that they got to me?
where was i? about here, i’d say:

you can find pieces and make more
but a thousand poems is a fair guess
at the total number, more or less,
overall, i did my best, so did i pass the test?

note: i like the funny
always have
and the running like the river ones
makes me glad. oh, there’s water again.

i thank my mom and dad for not stoppin’ me,
and all the blood generations for centuries down;
and if i had another choice i think i might’a
been a red nose, funny hair, big shoes clown.

oh pshaw not really, forget the clown thing.
that didn’t last long.
to paraphrase my friend old Lonesome -
what i say you better divide by two.

and whatever time you put into reading this
is your business, i think mostly monkey business,
but i’m grateful and other things , etc. etc.
okay, now let’s go sip something refreshing

say, did i ever tell you
you remind me . . .
oh, never mind. M. would say hang up now
cause it could cost us both money.

age of technology

could get a new TV
sit for hours
take popcorn showers,
go dizzy spinning channels.

or in this era of inquisitive technology
forget about watching TV
go about my day
and let the box view me.

may and it's cold out.

may and it’s cold out.
winds and stormy rains i expect,
but the lawn and the flowers and the frogs
. . . waiting for the warm, so are we. we are.

yeah, they’’re years like this.
mark this down, one o ‘em;
not as what we want; nothing we’ll remember fondly.
don't plant til end of may is what they say.

so i drove her to the store.
waiting at the red light, waitin’.
they won’t turn on red.
i wait three lights to get on with it.

in the parking lot see phil,
tell her go on i’ll be in a minute.
caught up with phil, we talked, yeah;
good to see the old man.

heard about neighbors from back then,,
jus' caught up sayin’ nothing.
n ‘our heads we ‘valuate, and it’s'all fine.
old guys saying hi.

so, we went to the store
and we went home.
still cold.
saw Phil.

the all new plan

whatever it is,my wife finds anything out of line,
anything at all, she’ll be pissed
doesn’t matter what it is.
hope there’s nothing i’ve missed.

i’ve got to anticipate, that means
clean up after myself, not make a mess
and keep her kissed . . . well, at least amused.
no one gets a free ride round here,

not even the frogs. not these days,
and make them damn robins pay
for all the worms they’re taking;
those dirty dirt peckers.

and i’m turning myself a new leaf, sure enough,
starting first thing tomorrow if i can,
well, tomorrow afternoon at the latest,
you can bank on it, cause that’s the plan.

so you may not recognize me,
cause i’ll be the one all the time head down an working, an I’m not
jerking you around, that’s for certain, well, that is the plan.
i’m the new man til they pull the final curtain, practically.
wa ya'think?

pilgrims cry

was a file
kept with my others.
title looked intriguing,
opened it,

nothing inside,
only a title.
i thought it would grow
from that small beginning

it didn’t; so what does that tell me?
writing beginnings can sit for a long time
unlike buds in spring or leaves in the fall that let go.
i made a sandwich to stall and consider.

had a model of the mayflower when i was a kid,
from the bar in a restaurant my folks took me to.
don’t remember ever playing with that ship
but i had it for a while, or at least i think i did.

now, pilgrims,
you're not usually thought about in May,
you are a story, seems from forever so long ago,
and should be remembered more, 's what i say.

you were before trains, TV, traffic,and airplanes,
when our country was land full of trees,
a lot of rolling earth, Indians and lightening bugs,
and many down sloping clean, fresh running streams.

good night kisses and motherly hugs,
that’s how it was done. now don’t you cry, pilgrims,
you did yours starting out and getting us here. thanks
from the generations that followed in the Mayflower's wake.

there’s still trouble with religion, war, and government,
the same old woes do go on; and like others in their time,
you know, we too did both our job and made a bit of mess.
patching, between accomplishments, an living with the stress.

guy problems

icebergs are melting,
great globs of trash are floating in the oceans,
the universe is expanding or shrinking ;
scientists have conflicting notions.

is it hotter
or colder,
what’s going on;
and what about the economy?

more than i can handle sometimes.
though i can squeak by knowing two things:
is what i have on okay?
and, what’s for dinner?

i thought chili peppers were hot

i thought chili peppers were hot,
that was the story, just hot.
then i ate a few,
okay, maybe more than a thousand.

not all at once, you know,
only if you add them up. a lot of them
in my lifetime, you see;
and what i got was an understanding

and an appreciation
for peppers in general.
sounds like a civil war commander
General Pepper,

and i did work for an old Pepper too.
Bill, he was from Kentucky.
Waddy, Kentucky to be exact.
How would i possibly remember that;

except that he wrote a song and
wanted me to help make it a hit, no kidding.
he called it - Move your Body to the Waddy.
and i thought i was making this up.

well, maybe with the Internet
and who know what all,
Bills words will live long, on into dark nights,
down rolling hills and by bushes where animals call;

but i swear it is true as clear water
gushing out of a mountain stream;
tasteless yet refreshing,
but no way a hit, you know what i mean?

all this takes us back to peppers
or at least me, where i began, it does.
i’ll sprinkle red hot ones on my food
cause it gives my mouth that happy buzz.

they were eating pepper five thousand years ago
in the Americas, that’s a fact;
and they stayed cause they are good,
but i don’t have to tell you that.

come on Bill, let’s make a song of it,
for the mountains and the trees and the birds
and the new people who came over and started
this up, along with and especially for, the Indians.

on Pasquali's family business

daughter.
good cooking daughter
satisfied to be there,
smiles when she sees us,
serves us well and plenty.

son.
son seems content in his labor
finding his own self,
following his father’s way;
stays on task throughout the day.

husband.
Pasquali is the quintessential good guy,
out there, friendly and happy,
he’ll stop and talk;
sits down with us if it’s slow.

wife.
don’t rush to pay if you see her,
now here’s the real score,
when old wifey takes the cash
it always costs a little more.

as a measure of time

as a measure of time,
tables - use old wood to build them,
or poems that i scratch out;
the tables aren’t much.

just made a small one
to hold my keyboard nicely,
the computer keyboard,
not the piano.

the piano sits well enough already
on the floor in the other room
where it ought to be,
like you, like me,

in place where we ought to be.
can i measure time building tables,
make a clock of it? there are pictures
to paint, engravings to do, and writing, eh.

all comes from within like breathing country air
and i let it out as it happens.
need i direct it more, control
and make a neat scene

or continue to write poems at random,
then build something,
paint something,
read or write when it happens?

at least, at most,
i am happy about it,
like life in the city
and many people to talk with;

what they do is their affair.
i keep head down with what i do,
although she has mentioned that
we don’t need another table.

rising early in the morning
in stillness, alone,
far trains passing
clocks ticking, tripping silence.

folly of spring

I
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.


II
wretched clean up
after a winter of winds blowing sticks,
knocking things about and new spring growing,
making a mess that we will reassemble into order;

it has to be done,
our part of the bargain
for being people living in this community.
have you noticed, the lucky nonliving don’t do shit.

they lie still in the recently frozen soil
watch the stars, wait for visitors,
or walkabout, return to favorite haunts in cover of darkness
or in thin air, thinking thoughts they didn’t know they could in life.

so i gave a kid relative of a neighbor
five bucks to cut our long front lawn.
when he finished tipped him a dollar for immediate service.
his two minutes would take forty-five from my life.

the kid is a tall, well built,long hair seventeen.
at that age i could have sliced weeds and then run the gauntlet,
now a wobbly sixty-five, can use the help
and kids always need money. good for both of us.

earlier i asked the school teacher next door how much
should i offer the lad to mow, he said five or ten.
this neighbor cuts it for us for free when we’re away.
teaches fifth grade math but not economics.


III
Frank the bluegill is gone from our pond
should i cast along the bottom with a net
dragging for skeletal remnants, traces
or did an invader, man or egret, go fishing.

no frogs yet, not this first of May.
they’ll come home in due time,
when it’s warm, humid, still and bugs are about.
scratch that last; there is one out there barking now.


IV
old friend LeeH. wrote to tell me of poet Wallace Stevens;
said my stuff was reminiscent. thought he joked
until i kept reading; it's a stretch, but now with a thousand
poems down i learn something new. that’s how life goes,

especially when you tire
of your own reflection in the water
and then pick your head up and look around.
there are nearly seven billion of us in this pond.

reading sign

i need go over again,
searching carefully each clue
as to where is up
for me, for you, it keeps changing

there’s been faint trace
like a bird puff gone to wind,
aloft - the shifting of the old tree.
ground level - wind licking long strokes in lawns

stuff is old, i see it around me
don’t let me kid myself
the wind is cold by night
as day old dinner left lying on the shelf

rampant speculation leads to inaccuracies
following closely pit padding heels of worry
abandoning hurry, do softly tread,
leave no space, show nor dread.

as we race handle our duties,
scurrying about have no doubt,
in the end, as my mother said,
kid, everything always works out

the egret has landed

more a to a less play the drums tap tap
in my head riding, some.
last time i opened the window
i didn’t know it was the last time

if people dressed better
would they treat us better?
on the other hand
they treat us like cattle, so dress for it

saw a disheveled motorcycle man attired for a sleepover
had on a t-shirt with a decal picture of a motorcycle on it
give him a country name
call him Harley Woodpecker

hug the cushion
to your chest
in the event of evacuation
i’d call that an event all right

don’t mind
much of anything
words people say
or what aggravates

out the window
looked like two fat puffy bunnies
parked on the tarmac
call them big planes in their team colors

lock tray tables down in their
full upright position, why is that?
will it rattle, fall and break on takeoff?
hug the seat cushion to your chest

in the event of an evacuation
or if in need of a cuddle, not while plane is in motion,
or they’ll want to know why you’re taking their plane apart
don’t forget, do not forget this is a non smoking flight, don’t forget

woke up at eleven pm last night your time
been flying, well, riding mostly
go ahead tell me it’s a non smoking flight
nearly forgot, thought i'd quit or something

hurry driver
take me home so i can find the Internet is down
cause a ten cent piece of plastic broke when they
thought they reconnected the stuff no problem

throw out that dot of plastic
get it in the ocean
so it floats with the rest of it
and won’t ever be lonely again

ordinary coffee 2

between time has begun in earnest,
sliding along a step at a time in this land
where coffee is not only a drug
it is the ritual, deeply set

saw Alberto a final time
had coffee, bid our goodbyes.
neither here nor beyond, i’m in prep time now,
thinking the way

then near home, woodworker Franco
tells me he’s moving from his shop,
saddened. his friends, already
thinking of his friends

twenty-five years in this place,
Franco has ripened and aged in this studio
of worn brick fabricated in the late middle ages.
he knows these ancient walls, having laughed and cried here

and we all have our paths,
the way for one is never
easy as it may appear to others.
expect and accept surprises

on the way keep your head up,
be alert through change, though fear it not.
remember - it is always easier to ride the horse
in the direction that it is going.

ordinary coffee

ordinary coffee and a roll with apple
at the bar unchanged for years
dark haired daughter works Monday
she knows our routine

M. went along this regular
laundry day for Bill and i.
now Luciano will be closing his place
moving to Thailand the end of the month

chef Bill will spend his 43rd year in Roma
then is on his way
to live with his brother in Atlanta,
we’ll return in the fall, that’s the plan

yesterday it was Chinese food
with Maria, Bruna and Luciana,
a Trastevere summery Sunday
we bid our goodbyes

quickly all happens,
so sudden to depart
our friendship. our adventure
oh, melancholy heart

more or lessing now

this whole thing is amazing
there’s seven billion of us
mostly the same
one head and the other parts
we put words together
that’s one way it starts

then what i come up with
is not all that unique
we’re in this together
that’s what i think

my poems are like yours
when you take ‘em apart
they’re all from the brain
run by the heart

so a salute to us is okay
from one and for all
give it your best,
have a nice day

saturday first thing

Saturday first thing
the crack of eight, remember that,
it's the hour to ransack Rome,
cause Romans sleep in the mornings

from our window above i observe a Bangladeshi
load the large wheeled wooden hand cart
for Campo dei Fiori venders Marco and Isa,
the guy needs the work, and they’re older now

we go out and down the alley way,
find Corado working alone at
Rosaria’s store, talk a bit.
he wants to see America some day

then to the laundry that still isn’t open
a half hour past the opening time written on the door.
after fifteen minutes of staring at the sign
we drag our cart to the Laundromat a few streets over

Crazy Mario is working, usually i go on Monday
with Bill the chef, when Luciano works there,
forever grumpy and dreaming aloud
of Thailand beaches, warm weather and low prices

our chores finished, we leave Roma by car to discover
it’s the day, it’s the hour, it’s what every Disneyland in
the world wants to be, charming as Sacrafano’s
medieval village center, rock village on a hill

now freshly green, deep springtime in the air
we have a coffee and walk around.
then to Alberto’s delightful home in the wild,
for lunch, half Calabrese cuisine,

half plain out of this world
Albie’s an artist, even when he cooks.
i’d tell you more but the page is nearly full,
must save room for desert.