Roma Comathon

twenty-five hundred years
of gladiators, spectators, venders, pilgrims, rovers, jugglers,
flounders, gypsies, immigrants, conquerors, thieves, winos,
the knowing learned, the curious, proper citizens,

the head count
parts of them are all on this bus
plus that imbecile about four rows ahead of me,
traffic jam, don’t worry

Giganticus plows through all
make a hole, I stamped my ticket,
so put the pedal down, i will hang on
can't take it? want to bail out, that's okay

streets under construction,
we detour, but we’ll get to the spot
where the driver takes his break
come hell or high water

new poets

i read the new poets to see what they say 

mine is like ancient but, i wrote it today 

don’t follow new patterns don’t always use rhymes

 I’ve got this thing going of doing four lines 

don’t run with a group It’s all give and take 

i patch and recoup so give me a break

To Stand In The Way

at the grocery store one clerk and two women
stand around a cart, talking in the doorway,
either Dylan’s The Times They Are A-Changing
was not translated into Italian, or they didn’t care

“don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall” - they do,
they make a habit of it, when tired, they look for doorways.
there is a busy street, heavy traffic, buses, a church
steps in front leading to a two foot wide sidewalk, then traffic.

there, directly in front of the church,
in the center of the tiny walkway
a mature woman stops to dig, dig and dig for
something deep, deep in the bottom of her purse

if i said anything she’d be surprised she blocked the way.
so either i wait and prey in front of the house of God
that she finishes and moves on,
or i can just go to hell and wait there

Spanish Steps Out of Time

Bob is four years older , he had a little jump in time
i bought a fourteen dollar Stella guitar
what’s left is in the trash somewhere, don’t know what kind
of guitar he had, it’s probably in a museum

i listened to classical, Bob listened to Woody Guthrie
a vacationing professor from the Oberlin Conservator of Music
gave me weekly summer voice lessons
Bob may have developed his voice cursing at winos

while i was still singing in the echo of my bathroom
bob was auditioning clubs and walking the streets of new York
my first time on TV was at six a.m., broadcast locally,
Bob’s was prime time nationally on Ed Sullivan

years later in a hot tub in Malibu, our host pointed
out the house below, closer to the ocean - Bob’s house
again later i sold one of my first paintings called Spanish Steps,
the guy said he bought it because Bob wrote a song about them

i sang one of my new songs in a club,
a guy came up and said it was very good but
leave off the long explanation that it was about the Civil War
so you win some, lose some, that’s how life goes, no regrets

now Bob and i are equally on short time,
my songs made some cents, and while i changed my socks,
Bob changed his name, made millions of dollars,
touched billions of people and changed history

i'm happy to salute him. hats off to Bob, Bob Dylan

gondola of dream

a light golden raft
my gondola of dream
lapping on calm ripples
beneath clouded silver moon
where muted colors scream delight
in soundless melody
i sleep at peace most every night
as floating along
i hold you tight

demonstration

students from around Italy came to Roma to demonstrate
i had slept poorly but had to go to the bank anyway
before i left i lost my bank card, frantically i
searched every where, three times, for an hour

then lost another card, another Italian one
difficult to replace, but i saw one card this morning
kept searching, sweating, worrying, then found
both of them, in my jacket pocket during the third search

bused to the bank and did business with Antonio
i asked to see Antonino, but he left
and was replaced by Antonio
Antonino mean little Antonio

they aren't related, but look the same
then caught a cab to the other side of Roma
realized i left an important receipt at the bank
did business and talk in Parioli

had to call the bank anyway
Antonio said Monday I’d get the receipt
traffic would be bad today
the demonstration will be immense

left at noon and the mess began
buses were doing improvisational routes
my bus had young Paul McCartney on it
same mouth, hair and eyes

he got off into the crowd at the next stop
i looked out to see a young woman driver in
a small car, she had an earphone in each ear
was talking forcefully as she smoked

Paul was mysteriously back on our bus
i got off when the bus quit my direction
walked in confused crowds,came to Pasquali’s
how fortunate, it was lunch time

had spicy pasta maccinata and it was good
when i left i wondered if i had called him Luigi?
two streets later a police barricade blocked my way
a police commander sent me down another street

the crowd marched toward me
i wasn’t carrying a banner and
was headed into the throng
helicopters overhead nearly made as much noise

as music blared from speakers on the back of a truck
nothing changes, Italians like demonstrations
i made the long walk home, where
the hall light was still out, doing the key was difficult

additive walk

on narrow cobblestone ways
a November dark day
under my feeble umbrella
held against strong gusts

bought sugar, salt and virgin oil
they gave me change and a plastic bag
forgot to bring my own, and was lucky,
some stores charge for plastic bags

then homeward, i glanced into well lit shop interiors
where waiting well dressed workers looked out,
chaos seemed subdued
by wet afternoon darkness

a drenched shrieking girl passed on a bicycle
moving too fast in heavy rain
though she tried she didn’t fall, i didn’t look,
i was busy taking a step at a time, she shrieked again

do you get less wet moving quickly
or by going slowly in a downpour?
this I considered while avoiding puddles
and the missing cobblestones on my way home

i didn’t forget my keys, so I got in easily
but the light was out in the hall,
made it to the store and back,
overall, i must have had a ball.

forgot butter

in the realm

often reflections are from light in the rain,
developing traits are reactions
some things are to be worked on
others, left alone, unfold in time

worry is for amateurs who make messes
while concern is kin to concentration
read, talk and listen, calmly evaluate
tend your affairs like a garden, as best you can

the media provides answers always later, not sooner
they report the news, not make it
life has ebb and flow
like water, finds the way in time

wheels turning

take off your shoes and belt,
walk through the big magnet thing,
can’t bring my own water, buy theirs?
wheels turning, spinning, line up again?
like a mill, an engine
it’s me thinking, or feeling like
I’m flying
could be doing nothing
eat and sleep, wait and see
change planes, what happens,
read and sleep,
I should get there,
tomorrow

chronicle of the leaves

wear a cap as they come,
bud, shoot out, green,
unfold, form, stretch, flex,
hang tight in rain’s glory

limber, develop, mature, flutter,
toss your cap high as they change,
turn, yellow, expire, dry, orange, surrender,
spill. tumble, repel, watch them go,

bow you head, as they depart,
cascade, drop, coast, float, descend
say a word for all as they lie there,
wither, roll around, crumble and rot

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,

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 gears shift and someone is directing traffic,

i feel it 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,

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

hello bob

hello old bob evans without music
we’re back in style
did you miss us? we just put in our order
how much oatmeal can i eat
before i turn into one myself?

i’m a day behind on louis l’amour
no, i finished him, i forgot
i’m in china now, literally, that’s right
living with a mother and daughter in a detention camp
and enjoying the cultural revolution
well, i am enjoying the story that is.
breakfast i’ll enjoy when it gets here

tuesday i fly to Roma
it’s than time again, so soon
later that usual, how quickly it arrives
the faster it goes, the slower we get
Roma is old, and I’m getting there myself
well, I’m not flying, the plane is

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

last night

last night i slept floating
in a powdered soup mixture
of dream and train whistles
stirred once or twice
by wind in the trees
a creaking somewhere in the house
and a neighbor's running-barking dog

as last all became quiet
and very, very still
until grey cracked open by dawn
panned out as morning

leaves end

the fall colored foliage
fluttered then fell today
in a breeze
and all together
a veritable blizzard of gold

leaves that swirled around
blowing with a crinkling sound
fell in as thieves thick on the ground
now to rake the gold, clean the eaves,
but this gets old, by then it’s cold, geeze

brushing teeth

I am surprised how many times someone discovers this site by searching the Internet to find a poem about brushing teeth. This is a link to one of mine. One of mine? Who am I kidding? It's not as if I have six more stuffed under the mattress. It's one poem. A little one and it just happens to be about brushing teeth.

i'd love

i’d love to love you
a few weeks would do
to give my heart
but hold some back

could upset you, i suppose
can make you laugh, fix things
and will eat anything
we’d be happy, have fun

of course nothing would get done
soft touches, cold lunches
and warm smiles,
time simply divine

although, instead, if you’ll be my friend
no hearts will be broken
no wrongs need we mend
i’ll dream of the ocean

you go read a book
do your own thing
we’ll talk like sister and brother
although if you have time

call when you feel like
and i’ll come do you
up one side the block
and down the other

soft night train

no screeching last night in quiet light wind
the train was someone 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,
mah, ma, as if needed to be picked up and cuddled

barack

a world class, educated man with loving family,
a cultural reflection of the JFKennedy era
Barack for all the people,
calling in truth and reason

he is spark to ignite hope
lain dormant long years,
to turn us away from hate and fear,
toward renewal of the glory days of America

American Dollar Pie

gas over four, now nearing two
I mean say wait - until election day
they’re not through, it’s gu gu candy, sudden death,
how fast can you chew? rots your teeth, hold your breath
dollar pie, can you sling it, do you have the move?
they’ll tap your phone, wait for what’s next,
can you say charge it? you’re the wrong sex, fair enough?

friends line up
get a little spillover of 700 bill
new car, new house up, up on the hill,
or a simple five star month hanging out
on rich man’s island in the tropics,
unlimited mai tais, hula girls included,
plus other unnamed topics
disclosure deluded
member f.d.i.c.