words unspoken

mystic words unspoken
scribbled out in haste
placed in a box
the lid down tight

all were not thought about
until today when, as the plane took me
over the patch work quilt leading to Philadelphia,
suddenly recalled those fragments

not entire to be called poem
so no one under the wind will recognize
precisely what those pieces are
until i weave patches together

the still life

walked by one of mine
stopped to straightened it
in pause i saw
captured in arranged space

the shelf and wall
with objects irregularly lined,
positioned with care
as painted there
in restful scene forever.

working the morning hour
every day for less than a week
to collect the relative same natural light
before the sun moves and light changes.

in reflection of colors,
a recreation of the space,
this representative reproduction
as I see, as I do
within time available
a man makes art
then hangs it on the wall

why you need poetry, or poe what?

twisting slosh clobber
ten thousand splashing waves crashing,
screaming into the face of the wind .
looking over i see the noise is emitted by
a kid at the next table eating breakfast cereal

daily bread
do not donut
why not
pilgrims cry
George M. Cohan sang
sailing, talking, running
for the long song
and that’s the short of it,
it’s all about the wind.

why do you need poetry
connected and rhythmic?
are you going to dance to it, or
lie down and cry over it?
what you have is your money’s worth

see what happens.
see what shows.
its now or over,
depending how
your day goes.
and the price of gas

a collection of words
to get into, gain light, float away,
or use it to better roll along the bottom.
endless are the possibilities.

while you're young

while you’re young
hike the peaks.
take some leaps.
come fall, rake leaves.

make tracks in the hills,
wander the hollow,
‘neath clouds high see ‘em go by
as the grand geese honk over.

evening, toast your pals
roast marsh mellows,
laugh now, gals and fellows tell your stories,
wrap it up over apple cider, then count the stars.

days pass, waxed on glass, you know.
then remember again, as you will,
the great times that passed
when we were young together.

long distance evolution

on narrow cobble stoned streets
at noon in the throng of the old city
i passed a woman speaking in normal voice.
something odd about this caused me to stop.

hearing her calm voice i turned to watch.
in no way did she sound or look crazy.
her calm manner of dissertation seemed quite normal,
but there was no one to whom was she speaking.

she stood chin up, as if speaking to the wind.
i had to walk back and then begged to interrupt,
“mi scusi.” I asked to whom was she speaking?
she pointed up toward the building she was facing.

eighty feet away high up on the third floor her friend
looked down from an open window, smiled and nodded.
here at last is proof of the evolution of man
adaptation in the strength of neighborliness.

gleaming, rolling

from the bridge Garibaldi,
toward the island Tiberina,
the split Tevere river water runs swiftly.
a three foot falls is on the South side.

caught in the back water of the falls
are eight soccer balls rapidly turning ,
25 bright, shiny one- liter plastic bottles in motion,
sparkling iridescent light blue, green, orange and white.

bathing in exploding foam that surrounds all.
gleaming refracting sun jumps colors to life.
when you come to Rome be sure to look;
I’m sure it will till be there.

swift flows the river
but those rolling objects
aren’t leaving;
they like it there.

poetry music, art

poetry, music, art
how i spend the hours;
need to squeeze in flowers
for the rhyme.

words, piano, drawing,
would say color
but doesn’t rhyme,
just makes music for the eyes.

here again some

where new and old is Rome altogether.
observing what is
and making note;
thus comes poetry out of this city.

took a cab across town to the district Parioli,
Fiat called me for a recording session.
later on a bus ride home a baby cries.
after a few minutes i move to the rear.

and cries relentless, poor child
it is twenty minutes to the termini
and cries.
voluntarily out early i transfer buses.

there is an alert.
a white medical van goes by
as siren calls i’m here, make way.
the van labeled as carrying blood and organs.

on then off another bus again
at Largo Argentina.
a place i know well,
though hardly time to look around

a third bus takes me for a few blocks,
and then walking now near home
i stop, because it was necessary.
had to to look into the hole.

men were working on the long deep ditch.
speaking with a co-looker i mention
the building right there
was a workshop of Michelangelo

see the faint painting on the side that his students did
the workers were seated, resting for lunch, listening
i said to my co-hole- looker that only men
stop to look in the holes.

one of the hole workers heard
and added, not only men,
also children always stop
to gaze in the hole.

so it is that good work,
as with poetry,
begins with the question:
what is down there?

and this time i do think
for sure, rightfully so, there may be
something most interesting hidden for ages from mankind
down there in that hole.

spoke with five

spoke with five people in a church,
actually more a museum these days.
we and the they were in repose,
a respite from touring Roma.

bright, able and intelligent,
a refreshing splash revitalizing the reality of
this start of the second decade
of the twenty-first Century.

calm, quiet, sharp, all spoke observantly,
we would have taken them home right now;
course they’ve gone now, we lost ‘em.
what remains is spirit of rekindled hope for the future.

on a stairway

on a stairway all the way
up the side of the house
is it redwood? i think so.
definitely spongy in places near the top

then i climbed on the outside of the rail
found a box with odd electrical parts
and a scrap of rumpled paper
with a handwritten note

that said, “.83 per kilowatt hour,
123 dollars for a month.“ could this be?
or is it solely an invention of dream
and possibly of poetry?

bus drama

from the prime first seat i see
an old woman outside the door as it closes, she doesn't see me,
looking up she is mouthing pleading words to the driver
while he sits comfortably aloof looking straight ahead

she is manically asking help from God,
desperately imploring the baby Jesus
hands on the wheel the driver is warm in his glass booth
the elderly woman outside the door shakes her fist

i’m in the middle nearly between them
what should i shout - Hey, Whoa, Wait?
unable to quickly form helpful words
it all unfolds a breath before the bus departs

i write
i read
don’t request them
then look for comments anyway
do the necessities
keep things in order as best i can
my sister had a stroke recently.
also, and this also is an integral part of the whole;
i wrote my wife today and she agreed,
it is all passing so quickly.

this is the sixteenth day

how problem was found
and how it resolved
began with desire
to take a bus

the tobacchio man said sold out
no more November bus passes.
i settled for a one week pass,
paid sixteen euro.

which week of the two remaining will i ride?
the week begins when i punch the ticket.
should i ride the week in the middle
leave a few days on both sides?

sixteen euro is what i pay
for a leisurely full month fare.
i was fifty feet away
when i thought about it

then i went back
and exchanged the week pass
for sixteen individual tickets.
that will serve me well

there are shadows

set one two three
there’s a street light bright
showing through a tree bare for winter
cast upon the neighbors white garage

seen from our window
any dark November night
the large flat garage white
is engraved by intricate branch shadow

sharp and still as a pencil drawing
until breeze begins limbs clawing
creating overgrown powerful tentacles
bulging in menacingly creepy proportions

industrial music please

the industrial music on TV Oh Boy
during wake-up early Saturday morning off-hours
when no sane sponsor would pay a dime to advertise
ergo there was nothing decent to view

we watched until it made us tap our feet in joy
to see new clean shiny bottles passing by,
row on row, on conveyor belts,
endless bottles sans commentary

gleaming bottles galore
whoa, wha’cha watchin’ zombie kids?
watching bottles
passin’ by, nothing to talk about

only that music and bottles on parade
you have to have loved it, or hated it or been mesmerized
here they come empty, watch ‘em now
then full, then lidded – get the lids on will ya

sometimes you tuned in and saw the end
when all those full bottles were
boxed, packed, trucked, then sped away
all to that appropriately endless industrial music.

11-11-11 punkin house on a hill

ohio man grows largest pumpkin
on charming small hill
dries it out
scrapes inside clean

crafts bed, cabinets,
does plumbing, then electricity
paints interior, decorates
even adds a fireplace

hangs up curtains and lives in it
falls asleep with fire roaring
burns whole place down.
gets out alive




now years later the local beer joint fills
every Saturday eve when they leave the hills
to buy him ale
and to hear this tale

smoking in the dark

lights out blackness nearly
yet creeping neon proclaims the inner city
leaking into our unlit hallway
softly dusting a residual hint of glow

i open the door a crack
to see illusive curling smoke,
then close the door
welcoming the envelope of total dark.

even the glow of a puff
stealthy falls away
silent in the mystic lure
of golden tobacco.

ah, but i know the way
to idle swirling dream,
the light that follows spark
when smoking In the dark.

the leaf in the pond

it leapt from tall sugar maple
semi-circled in light breeze,
that leaf briefly glided
then came to pond landing.

large, twisted nearly into a great U
floating flat and steady on one side,
swan proud high on the other
as gusts took it round

making short lines in light wind ripples,
then circles, quickly here,
spin turn there, zipping
like a curious swan on the lookout

then swung about like a four master
in queen’s colors, my beloved red to yellow
swashbuckling dry dinosaur,
remnant of parting golden autumn.

box of cereal

instead of stopping for a donut,

i’m going to get vitamins, they say.

but what happened?

But What (that’s me), can’t get to the cereal.

pulling, twisting, chewing,

all the old tricks

nothing budges the indestructible plastic package.

finally i use some scissors.

then, pouring  those golden flakes,

expecting toys and games,

i see that nothing special drops,

only flakes;  ok - so they’re kinda golden.

yet they look like plain flakes to me.

oh, my how times have changed.

there isn’t even a toy rocket

or whistle in the bottom of the box.

still i guess it’s okay to eat cereal,

mainly cause i know deep down

it  may be better for me

than a  dunkin’ donut.

so let us say

for the wind and the rains

the mountains and plains,

for robins, pigeons, red birds,

fish in the sea and high above eagles,

for waving sweet corn, carrots and round melons,

the fruits and vegetables,

meat and potatoes and little bugs,

for dust and the dirt, ice and rust,

in sunshine, strong winds

on starry nights, hefty ocean waves,

first morning light, moonless thunder

and during seasonal change,

for gone cowboys and Indians,

war paint, wagons and horses and buffalo

the bankers and doctors, kind women before us

the trees again, the breeze again,

lawyers, bums, gamblers and dentists, islanders,

pick a card, it’s who we are. to the Chinese,

south Americans, Europeans, Africans, the other ones

mark my word everywhere under the heavens

through clouds and fresh falling water drops

for all these and more, we pray

until do us apart,  until we part anyway,

some day, anyhow, all together  -  amen.

Frogologist

other careers you need credentials and study

more than merely tend and look each day.

too bad it doesn’t pay banker bailout money.

it captured me via strings-free curiosity.

true enough, October cool,

the chill pool is nearing winter

and there on the edge today,

diving down is Shorty Skinny,

no doubt a sleek light green youngster.

ten years i’ve seen them  all,

know well their schedule, summer to fall;

he’ll winter in the icy soup.

son of another home ponder,

count him present

for chill sleep down under.                                   

pond frog score: three home for winter.

Giancarlino remembers

talking to an Italian friend

about a music group from years past,

he said they were two  folk singers, big hits. 

i suggested Chad and Jermey? 

Ian and Silvia? 

finally he remembered, “Peter Paul and Mary”. 

That’s Giancarlino,  so Italian.   

he thought it was one guy,  Peter Paul  and a girl,  Mary.

pond from scratch

since i made this pond

more'an a decade’s passed

so it’s practically natural now.

the frogs think so.

this morning seemed the pump stopped.

couldn’t see it,  couldn’t hear it;

wasn’t any moving water to speak of.

pulled the pump, it was purring.

coated thick with great-green,

though,  pumping away it was;

checked the falls, found it trickled.

heavy  growth  covered the drop.

pulled then threw thick green gobs away,

minutes later all seemed okay;

on a warmer day’ll clean it all for winter,

today it’s late and i’m tired.

tomorrow’s out, heard it’ll rain,

day after’s soon enough for me.

you can’t do everything at once,

heard that said and belive it.

the good news is

two frogs set to winter here.

watched one, for sure, grow from little.

fish are sleeping deeper now.

while above, leaves keep blowing

and i scoop ‘em out of the pond

and wade the yard through red and orange.

as trees are changing differently,

seems definitely an unusual year

that will result, you know,

in the same affect;

for waiting around the corner,

coming soon, is winter.

we the resting

our bed of theater

banner front row center

space over town is evident

full mystic river flows left to right

far train crosses, rattles bridge

as off-left plant rumbles lowly

cue distant car from unknown faraway

birds fly  too late to call, hear wings flapping

we the resting

amid pre-morning

hold thought tight

hallowed be the night

Wonder Bread believer

helped strong bodies eight ways

for about a year

before clever scientists

found four more ways

then Wonder Bread

helped build strong bodies

twelve ways, no kidding.

so why’d they quit?

it’s been fifty years now

and if i don’t hear something soon

i’m going to quit believing

in advertising.

homeland security poetry

okay shoes off.   could be

weapons o'mass destruction in them

so down on da rug boys and girls

and spread ‘em

we followin' orders lookin’.

‘n don’ matter  none 

what ‘scuse  you got,

cause dis b Merica.

 wann’ a ejication?

put  chez  in da army

‘n  learn yez  practico

like  drive a tank n’ shoot

 

while on the other side,

a lesson in how to do life

at the Amish auction.

six  young  boys in a small cart

pulled in a circle for an hour

by a Shetland pony.

while all of them,

boys  as well as the pony,

kept mouths shut

and eyes open

making the circle,

enjoyin’ the go around.

and there’s equipment

to listen to your calls,

an we drive round

and listen in your house

we’ll feed you

hints in the media

and blur you

with delusion

anymore ‘n that

sheep  jus  don’t

gots da need

ta know

when she asked me

when she asked me to turn

off the sprinklers in twenty minutes

i nodded and  noticed the kitchen clock

and then the one in the living room.

they were ten minutes apart.

i began to tell her and she said

“Oh, jack” in that tone, you know which one.

“This is not science.”

“go make a clock then” is what i thought

but didn’t say,

then forgot where i was going with this

so i returned to the spot where i thought it

ever do that?

it usually works  -  to capture forgotten thoughts

return to the spot where you thought it.

this time it didn’t work.

looking out the kitchen window

there on the back of a chair

a squirrel sat intensely

looking in at me.

i had a plan where i was going with this

but  now, before i forget again,

i'd better go out

and turn off the sprinklers.

why i'm not writing everyday

a second summer tooth extraction
this one fractured on a rock
in take-out Chinese food,
kidnee stones, broken toe on my bear pad foot.

and i could be writing poetry
but got distracted.
how’s your summer?

i claim all the trees i see
and the three gulls above
in steady wind just right
that float near still like kites in a photograph

off shore wind
yellow morning sun
seventy eight degrees
still air, no breeze down here

a perfect day just now has begun


(  Note:  I wrote a word incorrectly in the above because in an effort to make more money Blogspot has sold out to a medical information company and alters blogs with difficult to delete site links.  More and more in this Twentyfirst Century it's all about money. )

happy anniversary

Pookashell-With-Kitties-All-Over-It
jumped into the shower
then came out immediately to kill four spiders
and although i was in the other room

yes, i caught hell
for i am The Man
guilty as charged
for as long as we both shall live.