if you're really Dave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

now i am one

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Hill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

wood smoke

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

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

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

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

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

a little sun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

in a while

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

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

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

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

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

day watching

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

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

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

whispers fog again
globe breathing
circling with fishes
gather mists

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

gradually reformed
now droplets
fall again lovely
light rain

january emptied out

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

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

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

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

then a little walking
through the crowds
a lot of talking

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

laughing young women
heads together
recount social victories

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

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

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

old Roma does survive

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

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

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

saw many stalls
so many,
compared prices
walked till tired

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

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

went to the bank

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

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

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

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

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

at times we see

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

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

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

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

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

like a daqueri

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

where goes the Bard of Avon

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

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

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

nearly striking fortune

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

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

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

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

ten thousand

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

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

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

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

if in a slip stream through time

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

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

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

sad poems

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

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

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

stone

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

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

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

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

time like olden days

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

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

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

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

until you get it right

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mr. moon mixes his days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fictitious facetiousness

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

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

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

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

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

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

b.

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

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

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



addendum:

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

these poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

terror

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

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

the end of an era

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

in good spirits

bus driver for the dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

over on the dark side

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

repetition

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

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

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

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

poor violin

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

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

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

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

un altro giorno in paradiso

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

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

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

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

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

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

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