the unmarked bus

what is it? no number.
here comes chance.
an opportunity?
boarded it, to where it was going.

found a seat easily
because two uniformed
ticket checkers were aboard.
somehow arrived at the termini.

on the street a lad was selling colorful plastic,
blobs to throw on the sidewalk, where
it splatters like an egg. then, as if a sci-fi movie
it immediately forms into a ball.

talked to friends Rocco and Stefano
at the pizza box, then to Nicola, Cecelia,
Teressa and Corine at Sfizio, meaning whim,
where i enjoyed red yolk eggs for breakfast.

M. joined me for coffee, we walked to Piazza Vittorrio
and to Mas, which means more in Spanish.
four floors of store like a maze.
the basement alone winds on forever,

with at least twelve rooms
and connecting, elongated,
narrow, irregular levels
of corridor.

tried on pants in a dressing room
where behind a curtain the entire contents
of that room was one wooden knob,
mounted head high on the wall. no seat.

and then caught an old tram that ran on tracks,
circled Piazza Maggiore the magnificent, huge
stone Roman gate where centuries ago
you entered to get into the city.

switched to a bus,
got off near home.
it was one o’clock.
time for lunch.

route change

a.

on to Pasqual’s for polenta,
something not on M.’s diet.
I ate knowing,
but she abstained.

i mentioned it Wednesday,
said i’d go Friday,
she said polenta is Thursday.
how’d she remember? i ate. it was good.

b.

opposite the restaurant is the building
where Samuel Morris lived around 1831,
eleven months. long enough to earn a
marble plaque on the exterior wall

that plaque says he invented
the electric telegraph magnetic writer.
which means, with different words,
about the same thing in English,

c.
then boarded the small electric bus
and rode into a student demonstration
with traffic stammering, then blocked.
we gyrated around as best we could, the driver did.

having just eaten and
had a few glasses of wine to boot,
the days was right to ride around
in that little electric charm.

there were four other passengers.
to help talk away the ride.
while the bus made a circuitous route
to get around blocked traffic.

warm and sunny,
he drove us well.
no one minded the
improvised route.

in the end he got us
nearly where we
all were going
in the first place, anyhow.

note

the unfortunate part
of not making note
is forgetting what it was
that i never wrote

we have to love it

first it kicks me,
i nearly fall,
then with all nearly lost
it loves me.

office of immigration
twenty years of doing it legal.
now take metro and then bus
to fight the crowd.

of twenty-one service windows,
four are open.
several times we go there
to be treated like dirt.

at home, alberto’s gallery
is right around the corner.
then, Campo Dei Fiori
just another minute away.

see old friends
and meet new,
early evening,
a pause to chat.

a movie tomorrow,
minute walk, no more.
got wine at the shop
on the way home.

it is the city
outside our door.
when it loves us
we have to love it back.

we were put here

we were put here
born, planted, however,
to do things over and over
until we get life right.

so we may as well
get on with it.
it’s our nature to struggle,
not to cause trouble.

be kind, do well, .
stack up good deeds,
move on the side of the light.
it’s quite a ride, hang on tight.

gray dawn

gray dawn and hard to
get up cold mornings, no kidding.
zero centigrade, freezing like 32 F.
spells Rome winter.

have to get going now,
Alberto’s art show
at eleven. Sunday morning? something new.
friends to greet. nice time.

home for lunch and a while,
then bus 87 to Colle Albani,
that’s way out a ways, way.
directly we climbed into a pasticciera.

that means pastry place. write that down.
it’s a good word to learn. tasty.
stick around, no kidding.
i’ll help you squeak by.

plastic bag heaven

plastic bag heaven is being relocated,
it’ll have to move, no doubt.
“there is no going back”
said the Italian minster of the environment.

in January, Italy will be done with them.
not ministers,
only the bags this time.
a giant leap for mankind.

why just the other day
i threw out many bags and wondered,
a thought too large to form,
an idea whose time has come

or will soon, Merry Christmas
and then goodbye bags,
i mean it, at least someone does,
that’s for sure,

it’s the law.
will our world be the same?
what shall we do?
oh my, what'll we put stuff in?

outside in the rain

outside in the rain this morning.
walked over, enjoyed it.
thirty minutes early at the appointed place,
the witches bar, la strega.

closed, but known to locals
as if it were still there.
not waiting for James today,
it is Giacomo, his dad.

called him at nine thirty-three
to say i am American and he’s 3 minutes late.
he understood the humor. everyone waits for
Giacomo and we Americans live by the clock.

he arrived and drove off in heavy traffic
and rain. oh yes, i was riding with him.
i rode behind him. a refrigerator was in front
and in back with me also.

heading for the mountains
on the high road we saw
layers of solid fog
between the mountain peaks.

we got to the quacky little town
if you ask what that means,
let me call it a charming, quaint
very old stone village teaming

with only the sort of mountain villagers
you’d imagine could live remotely.
not bad quacky, good quacky,
all the way up, all the way down and sideways.

on our way back to Rome
we passed a flock of sheep on our left,
Giacomo surreptitiously waved to them.
i noticed this tiny gesture and commented.

he explained if you see
sheep on your left side
it brings you money.
although that did not explain to me his waving at them.

giving thanks

the pilgrim’s Mayflower didn’t pass this way,
not Rome, Italy. an email from M. told me
she’s off to my brother’s for a family dinner.
that’s how i found out it is today.

went out this morning to bus away,
to the large strange market Esquilino.
first though, i wandered a bit, then decided
i already had enough vegetables for soup.

took coffee at one of the remaining old bars,
for old times sake, in celebration of the day.
this bar remains leftover from the Nineteenth Century,
while most places change, for the sake of change.

i passed into the piazza of Chiesa Nuova.
paused in a steam of golden sun, to think, to rest.
a familiar beggar quickly glanced, quietly went by.
evidently he remembered this time, i am a local.

then Campo dei Fiori. faces i know.
jokes, calls and small talk abound.
sat on the ledge at the base of the stature of Bruno
in the warm hold of morning sun glow.

Prospero, the veteran salesman, as of late
it's a plastic tool that cuts veggies into squiggles,
who says a few words of banter in many languages,
has a man working for him now. to sell to tourists.

Prospero came over to where i sat,
we’ve spoken many times. said he remembered,
waving, pointing, when i painted in the market everyday.
there and there. memories of the ebbing last century.

we talked of the old and current changing times,
of those come and gone, of this market now for tourists.
he is older and played these streets as a ragamuffin.
i'v known these waves of change a meager twenty years.

much of the old has been discarded, renewed modern.
he recalled the beauty of the faded unpainted stone exteriors.
i told him our building’s 400 year old worn smooth marble steps
have been replaced by sharp edged cheaper new ones.

then nearly home i saw my friend Franco, wood worker.
23 years in his unchanged ancient shop on our lane,
where more than four hundred years ago
it was named for the hat makers, via dei Cappellarri.

in these hard times Franco’s landlord has tripled the rent.
Franco is saddened to be leaving to an area farther out.
i will miss him and the picturesque shop that is sure to change,
a left over. as fewer and fewer of the old shops remain.

again another beggar passed, going the opposite way.
with sad face he called back to me, “Ho Fame.”
readers, that means i am hungry. what do you say?
and this morning i learned Thanksgiving's this day.

surely not only the poet has heart,
and feelings run deep as large fish in great rivers.
whether warm or icy, under clouds of rain or sunny skies,
we must accept life as it is given, and should give thanks in return.

another rainy day

another rainy day.
the only people on the street
were selling umbrellas.
need a back up? or bigger?

from the corner where i stood
i could see seven or eight umbie salesmen.
like mushrooms in the spring
they pop out when it rains

there were no other customers seated,
one or two for order and go,
came and went.
i like a quiet breakfast.

a man came in then,
set a suitcase down,
right in the middle of the floor
and then left.

didn’t hear what he said.
i knew the case wasn’t heavy
so i doubted it was a nuclear explosive,
but thought about it as i ate.

my eggs were already scrambled sufficiently,
so was i. then the man came back to eat,
then i drank my coffee,
then bid Roberto a good day when i left.

a dead fish

a fish died in our pond today
the first to go in eight years or so
not a floater, lying on the bottom
on his side, all alone

i scooped him out
laid him in the garden
and said words of goodbye,
he was white, formerly orange

i call it him
instead of it or she
don’t know why
surely doesn’t matter

the next day he was gone
don’t think he resurrected
something recycled him for dinner
so some good came out of it




I happened on this in the archives. It was from a year ago. Now it's out again, for you.

went to the dentist

went to the dentist,
haven’t seen this one in five years
so i missed my bus stop.
had to walk back up the steep hill.

a delivery truck was there.
a man carried on his shoulder
a huge refrigerated something that
looked like a cold white leg of elephant .

at a small outside market
got two bananas, 6 tangerines,
a pound mixed vegetables for soup.
very low cost, it's out of the center.

on the upper street i asked directions.
the dentist was two steps further.
took the small elevator to the third floor,
couldn’t get out.

doors opened to a flat wall.
i read all the signs twice,
then found the other door
on the rear wall of the elevator.

at the only door the nice lady said
the dentist was one floor down.
i apologized to her.
although the sign outside said it was this floor.

in the dental waiting room a newspaper headline
said China invades the USA.
also front page story, the Harry Potter film
was blood and sex.

saw the dentist and remembered
why my last visit to him was five years ago.
i didn’t like him.
he gave me an estimate for 1,345 euros work.

the receptionist made three appointments.
first one way later this afternoon.
in less than an hour i was home.
called and cancelled my dental appointments.

half a bag of butterflies

half a bag of butterflies,
that’s what i made
with green sauce
store bought.

i swear i didn’t
put it in my cart
it sort of floated there like butterflies do.
oh, i just tattered my poetic license.

for you rookie cookers, it's easy,
it's written on the bag.
all i had to do was count to twelve.
minutes, that is. presto.

now, pesto – that’s the sauce
i knew it would come to me.
like, when i saw it in the store
and it seemed a good idea.

ate half a bag
cause that’s what i cooked.
thought to save some for later.
saved the dishes to clean up instead.

here’s how it happened.
first i ate a third,
thought that might be enough.
then had seconds.

now there was only a third left,
hardly enough to heat up later,
and i didn’t plan eat a snack between meals,
so i downed it at onecet.

Oncet is an old Southern U.S. expression that I heard many times from a lady when I was growing up. Can't spell it, can't find it in the dictionary or google. Then again, perhaps also related, my dad used to say chimley.

at San Silvestro

it was noon when
i stepped off the busy street
into the quiet courtyard
at the church of San Silvestro.

didn’t go in to see john the Baptist’s head again.
there are a few in Rome,
john’s head, that is.
i’ve seen a couple.

here the courtyard brick walls are adorned with
fragment marble pieces bearing inscriptions, some
carved graffiti, from posted public notices and grave
markers a few hundred,to more than a two thousand years ago.

blocked from wind by tall yellowed travertine walls,
in a streaming beam of sun i sat outside,
on an old, smooth worn white marble bench,
to tie my shoe and consider.

i didn’t plan on considering.
my intention to be there
was to tie my shoe.
but since i was here anyway . . .
.
it’s a fine old courtyard
if it were in my back yard
i’d be able to do nothing for a while and observe,
but that is difficult here

when i had a single purpose
for my pause in this place
and really should
be moving along.

it’s another spot where tourists
and the prayerful pass.
most without inclination to sit and consider.
even those who come to go inside to pray

have other things on their minds.
but i, with no intention for being there,
other than to tie my shoe,
took the moment to soak in beauty.

and that reminds me of something ,
this morning when i awaoke it occurred to me
how everyone is living their life
as fast as they can.

to Esquilino - the huge farmers market

on the 70 near Santa Maria Maggiore
the large dark church on a hill in the city,
saw a young man in his twenties
dressed in two shiny dark grey trash bags,

seated back against the wall with stocking cap
and full beard, a faraway look in this eye.
a large decorated cardboard box in front of him,
presumably for you to throw money into.

the bus stopped close to the market.
i know the routine,
we'd done it many times.
gotta eat, today i go it alone.

first a coffee and a warm sweet roll for one fifty.
told the guy the coffee was good, i noticed.
smiling he said, he new it was good, cause he made it.
that’s what my Polish grandmother used to say, didn't tell him.

85 cents for three bananas,
gave 90 with the thought he can keep the change.
five and penny coins are ridiculously small and annoying.
he interrupted my thought to give me back twenty cents

don't think twice
it's all right,
Bob Dylan got that
the way it is.

got a huge, solid red work-of-art of a pepper - 47 cents.
a small pizza with red sauce to take home for an euro.
had breakfast, bacon two eggs, a hot roll,
coffee and orange juice for 5 euro.

said good byes and started off.
a woman on the bus
wore a tribal head wrap,
and an intriging red patterned dress. mysterious.

all in a days venture
into the dark heart of the city,
for a big trip to the famers market.
started raining, and hard, a minute after i got home.

Sunday thin clouds

Sunday thin clouds,
seventy degrees,
air is still.
is it really mid November?

as is our Sunday custom, i walk to Trastevere.
on the ancient stone bridge over
i give a euro
to the accordion player from Japan.

soon i am seated at the back table,
under the awning,
opposite the church Santa Maria,
beyond the fountain in the center of the piazza.

first coffee and then a spremuta,
that’s fresh squeezed orange juice,
on this day quiet, yet alive with hushed chatter.
Luciana arrives with an amica from Firenze,

then my friend Maria shows up.
later she and i go to the Chinese restaurant
to partake in our Sunday usual.
the owner at the restaurant asks.

everyone had asked where is M.
yes, even the accordion player on the bridge.
two weeks, i tell them. i’m the advance man,
she’s fall cleanup raker.

walking back with my supper,
leftover lunch in a bag, i marvel at the beauty
as the last rays of today’s sun spill gleaming,
this Roman golden and so very still mid-November.

here now

here now, this is Roma, this time.
the Buddha said -
all life is suffering.
maybe he had been here.

from a downtown bus i saw
a disheveled old lady on the sidewalk
seated legs out, smoking, drinking a beer,
talking and no one listening.

passed an old coffee bar,
where we had many coffees.
transformed, now it’s called Bali Way,
selling the true meaning of tourist junk.

the two old ladies in their eighties
who lived twenty years with shopping carts
outside, on the corner, by the train station,
are gone with no trace.

a decade ago taxis numbered four thousand,
now there are eight thousand.
is this why there are so few buses?
i walked, not for health, merely to get me there.

stopped where a friend
will open an art show in January
the owner gave me a ficus leaf.
said it is for luck.

the weather in Roma is like Ohio
much of the time.
then, there are other things
that are different.

i could cry.

i don't know these fish

though i see them everyday.
we’ve nothing to say
i don’t know these fish.
not personally.

the sight of them brings me joy.
enough to smile a hi.
to expect reply,
is not my wish.

they’re in my pond
where they were born.
here they live in relative safety.
for a fish, that’s living - big time.

this morning it was above freezing, barely.
they were drift floating
in sun- lit clear water,
low, by the stems of the water lilies,
taking the appearance of
orange and white ornaments
on the tranquil filaments
of an underwater holiday tree

no motion.
i don’t blame them.
a living still life
with nowhere to go.
a happy day for them?
would they know?

winter is a month away,
when it will be frozen Ohio cold.
yes, the fish will be fine.
it’s nice of you to ask.
and when water warms
they’ll wake to swim again.
i’ll see them in the spring.

Kindled Spirit

so long used book sale at the library
you won’t have me to kick around,
for i’ve a Kindle. i think that’s how they spell it,
i’ll check and let you know.

ok, so, now i’m all out head down walking,
cause i’m reading.
going along without wires
like the circus aerial performer without a net,

only it’s not glide-walking overhead,
it’s normal reading.
all right then, not exactly like the circus.
so never mind,

except it’s great.
now, step aside,
i’ve a Kindle,
and that is how to spell it, exactly.

so long now, I’ve got to sink into it.
oh, by the way, M. got it for me.
it was very nice of her
to belly flop me into the 21st Century.

i'd rather write of specifics

i’d rather write of specifics,
where i’ve been, what i’ve seen,
like places on Blue Mountain
where walking’s so serene.

have i ever mentioned Crystal Spring
where rushed the clearest water ever?
the cleanest taste, the greatest feel,
it made my ankles cold to play in.

my thoughts must hold for minutes there,
for every where’s distraction,
calling me, calling me
for just an hour’s action.

fix my shingle screams the one,
then i think i’ll fall over, sites another,
i’m sure i’m a good idea, calls a third
and you’d better plan for me, recites one more.

take a note: i’m sure i like four lines best,
they tuck neatly in the nest.
to right a line until it's tight, and then another.
sister sight, sister smell, and sound the brother.