Leonardo

stepped out this morning
suddenly a guy yelling for help
limping on fire to the knee
flames leaping waist high

i put him on the ground
put out flames with my hands
windows opened above, shouting
soon an ambulance came

i calmed him, said he was Leonardo
a street person with a small fire
keeping warm under the arch
next time he’ll remember me

the ambulance took him
put lotion on my hands
i had stepped out for a smoke
not to burn merry Christmas


I have repeatedly posted this as Leonardo, then changed it to Leonardo Burning, four or five times in the last 24 hours. I like the title Leonardo Burning, but don’t want to offend the worth of this street person Leonardo by seemingly trivializing the event; and the poem ends with a burning reference and I didn’t want to lessen the effectiveness of the poem. To burn merry Christmas is a swirling mystic somewhat ambiguous reference and I wanted it left like that, unrestrained.

Maybe I’ll have to stand back and let time pass before I can make final cuts.

As it is, the energy in there. It happened, I came upstairs and wrote it. At this point the poet is too close to the event to judge what has effectively transpired in the writing.

tre marias

late morning coffee
near Santa Maria in Trastevere
mainly Italian tourists about
quietly milling this tranquil day

then beyond the fountain in the Piazza
for Chinese food with our friend Maria,
where yet another Maria
operates that restaurant

though not a true Maria
she was made in China with another name
but found it easier to be a Maria and go along
swiftly as the river flows though Roma

make a list

passed Monica
said high a little
she was gone

see her twenty-three times a year about
talk more or less a minute each time
and of all the people i know
she is a good one

dresses neat, stands up straight, cheery
how are you i am fine that’s it
she gets a gold star in my memory

so if i made a list of everyone i know
she’d make the good list
once, years ago when i was sad
i made a list

why not try it
make a list of everyone you can think of
everyone you know

see who’s there
the list is privileged information
and you have a right to know

going about

going about in Roma
we have a car
and use it to get out
traffic clogged and lost

there is a slowing way down down
a large van is holding everyone up,
as we pass we see her reading a book
while texting on a cell phone

in circles by catacombs on Via Appia
old high stone walls so we can’t see
where we wander, which way we're headed
cloudy, so can’t tell north from south

then stopping for coffee, always a good idea
somewhere out of the center
where people get human again
we asked directions

sempre dritto, keep going straight ahead
that’s the best and favorite response
you’ll ever hear, no complications
they must teach it to children

strange, yet it works
for as all roads lead to Rome
inversely, when you are there
all roads will lead out of Rome

so no one is ever
really lost
only slowed
by traffic congestion

i've had it with you, Roma

i’ve had it with you, Roma
and refuse to be your fool any longer
two decades of chaos is enough
pushing, shoving, and oblivious pretentious aggravation

i’d rather pull my puppy’s ears
drag him out of the tiny box
from under the leaky sink
where i’d make him sleep if i were you

but to leave you, Roma
would be most difficult
to compensate for the loss
of aggravation

should i run stumbling against bulls in Spain
take lunging rapids in a leaky wooden boat
or walk in traffic blind folded
do please allow me to suffer longer

i know you lie and cheat to get your way
but loaded with art everywhere
you are noble, though distant and aloof
leave me unattended to wander in awe

scorch and boil me in summer’s cauldron
winters cast me out chilled into cold
treat me hard all seasons
if you must

but to turn away and leave you
as if you didn’t know me
would be more than i could bear
your tears would heap more agony on my anguished soul

allow perpetual suffering to continue
perhaps near the end you’ll cradle me
giving peace at last in knowing
that once you cared

for certain,
at the moment of torment’s end
my beloved,
i’d rather die in your arms

stolen horse

in light late afternoon chill rain
M. went to Standa to pick up things for diner
she’ll make pasta carbonara
carried a shoulder bag and an umbrella

bused up a few blocks
temperatures were dropping
she wore a hat pulled low
in gusts i started out to Alberto’s studio

along the way a couple called out
asked directions to Via Corso
i told them, pointed, down that way it begins
by the large monument at Piazza Venezia

then i walked out into heavy traffic
i was waiting for the light to change
must have forgotten, was distracted
from both directions cars were honking

made it calmly without incident,
and some embarrassment i digested
at that time
M. was carrying her loaded shopping bag

walking back across the bridge of angels
in front of the old castle San Angelo
there was an art show this weekend
Alberto told me his wife couldn’t go

because their five year old son
had homework to do
he said always there is too much homework
on the way home i saw Franco, age 67,

an Italian born in Libya
a persistent worker who lives miles away,
we crossed paths at the same corner in piazza Campo dei Fiori
near where he does inlay and waxing

fine detail in centuries old wood work
bought him coffee at the corner bar
he said a week ago gypsies stole
the cover for his motor bike

the evening before it disappeared
he saw the father and son checking it out
this weekend his motor bike,
his ride to work, was stolen

devastated, though tried not to show it
thievery is an invasion that strikes at the heart
i said it was like someone stealing his horse
he agreed, sadly, he agreed

we parted, i wished him well
by the time M. made it safely home
i did also, under city lights
and yes, her carbonara was outstanding

just say no to shopping

women don’t really want
hubby along slopping
always in the way
forever incompetent

to say they’ll take him
is only a scare tactic
a threat meant to show man
how brave they are

fighting fatties on electric isle-crowding carts
while finding the real bargains
checking what’s the latest
ahh, my queen of hearts, i know you’re da greatest

making a list

making a list
or soon will be
nothing serious yet
in my head at first

have to get things in order
i’ll jot notes in a minute
when i get a few ideas going
i’ve just gotten started

right now, i’m looking out the window
and there, she is in the yard
head down, pulling weeds
doesn’t stop, ‘cept to wipe her brow

black birds and robins fight in the bird bath
nothing overly untoward, only showing who’s tougher
and there she keeps going, pulling’ weeds
i wonder what she’s thinking now

she had better wrap it up soon
come in and clean up
you know she ought to be
making a list

the best

Zachariah makes the best pizza
he’s why we go there
house red amid pre crowd quiet
that’s a friday evening meal

Zachariah, two things i’ll recall
at the end of my life
one is your pizza
a pause as he reflected

Zachariah then asked,
and what is the second?
silently i tight-lip grinned
then we both laughed

i am a writer

i am a writer
alive in these words
breathe in the spaces

my pores
absorb periods
that’s why you see none

a flicked bit of ash from
every time i smoked
like food over a fire

with a line into water,
waiting the next one
to donate himself to feed me

phish swimmings
what he does he says
feels so good

i write for no one that pays me,
feeds or gives me shelter
am happy at this moment

writing especially for you
it’s practically i am
like speaking to you.

oh, see that
a period
quick - ingest it

the balance

a leaning fence in a fallow field
pile all parts in a heap
the good over here
bad on that side

so when standing back
way far back to see
the resulting evaluation indicates
an evident perception

worrying excessively
over minutia
or insufficiently about
everything else

pasquali's for the holiday

M. thought like an artichoke
i mean she thought she’d like one
a fond memory
I knew what she was talking about

without family in Roma
holidays are our time to eat out
we walked to a popular locale in the ghetto
forty minutes before the usual lunch time

already a crowd outside was buzzing
all had made reservations the day before
the head man said they were fully booked
the doors hadn’t opened yet we were turned away

bused up the Corso through holiday crowds
then around the corner to Pasquali’s
a familiar favored haunt,
one we had found a decade ago

he and his wife work the counter,
daughter cooks, the son waits tables
they smiled when they saw us
as we smiled at them

we took our table again
one we had known and tested
ate pasta amtriciana
drank red house wine with our meal

all was as it should be
we ate among friends
it was like home again
for the holiday

not comets

comments

(you have to click on it
and i have to tell you
cause the colors aren't right.
like, i messed up the way i picked them)

what you are clicking on is a poem from april '08 called "i feel like you"
i read it again and thought you'd like it if it put it out again.

days off

a moderate, quiet tuesday
a catholic holy day
also a state holiday
they work together

monday was the ponte
the bridge between sunday
and the official state holiday
italians know how to take time off

walked to the ghetto
for an eleven a.m. coffee
plus a slice of thin crust pizza with
sweet red peppers and a light tomato sauce

walked back by the turtle fountain
built from 1581 - 1589
a beautiful, calming sight
for a light rain tuesday

sifting over time

couldn’t say
for sure
don’t know
if i was sleeping

it seemed
my brain remained awake last night
working, sifting, sorting
rather like that

thusly night went by
a least that’s the impression
i held tight
when i got up this morning

the magnitude of life

who could have imagined
dealing with the like
largesse peppered with surprises
some in joy, some in crisis

waking early with morning coffee
to find life going already, rolling steady
by warm golden window light
you know life’s a sweet package

variety you could not have conceived
and while not visible at first glance
something is going on, darling
perchance not always what it seems

growing day by day
born of dreams
hear the joy of life in bird voices
and in the patter of the rain

pigeon

here on a third floor
can’t see the sky, unless
i stick my head out the window
and look straight up

still they zip by this narrow space,
fifteen feet to the building opposite
a blur by my window
thirty miles an hour

seems fast enough
they’re been clocked at 59
and often they zip by
with a partner

good old computer
tells me how fast pigeons fly
when what i see is a streaking blur
outside going by

slip

when i slip through
a stream in the
wings of time

and don’t return
leaving nary a trace
fear not for me

understand
i’m off somewhere
having an adventure

the table

with three guys at the table
didn’t know who they were
in discussion most interesting
don’t recall what was said

some time had passed when i looked to the clock
it was difficult to read the red glowing numbers
had to lean forward
to a sitting position

i was lying in bed, there was no table
there were not three others
so with whom did i speak with
in this vivid dream

the wash

over there
pulled up a chair
talking to the laundry
the washer then the dryer
Obama sending thirty thousand more troops
to Afghanistan
the left is yelling
why’s he doing that?

well he is a politician that got elected
what do you expect
Ron Paul was laughed at like ufos
he wanted to bring them all home
from all around the world
no more policemen for the world
why guard our borders in peace
money, money money can be made with war

play the game you get elected
you want to bring troops home
you’re not making dough for the money people
makes the world go round you know

grease those wheels
pull the strings
you want to play
you’ve got to pay

it’s flowing in now
someone makes guns
buys the bullets
fantastic tanks
nice boots
sends turkeys to the troops for the holidays
pass me the haliburton, will ya?

back and forth, costs a lot
tax payers pay the money players
talking to the spinning dryer
who else will listen?

wave the flag
want a medal don’t you?
a picture of your boy in uniform
that’s him on the mantel
rate me fifty on foldin’ clothes
I’m just saying
heaven knows

ciao ciao

spoke to an italian friend on the phone
he was born in Tunisia
we speak mostly in English
says he has to practice
he’s my friend, that’s okay with me

when you close a phone call
you always say ciao ciao
it is a commonly used form of bye-bye,
or talk to you later, always used on the phone
as i closed the phone call i said choo- choo

i didn’t mean to
it just came out
i’ll pretend he didn’t hear it
and he’ll think he imagined it
choo -choo?

driving

held up stopped at a red light
by a red light for nearly a breathalyzer,
til he decided coffee in a dark glass jug
is not always moonshine

they are doing a jig saw jig
on the square, guys holding steel poles
where a bob cat’s running
tearing sidewalk

was called Mud Brook Creek there
now it’s just Mud Brook
when they put in a golf course
they removed the redundancy

pretty fancy
what a few bucks
and a bob cat
can do

not giving you the eye
i’m in line behind you, nightingale
you see, the light is green
that’s why I’m honking

national health care

i heard American Indians
have national health care
out there
somewhere

it is said to be lousy
does that surprise?
this is a poor example
for the system

isn’t lousy
the way
we’ve always
treated Indians?

if it were for the wife
of a politician
you know the same system
would work well

noon late november

sky blue noon late November, jacket open
as i crossed the new Ponte Sisto
a replacement for Pons Aurelius. 300 A.D.
renamed for Pope Sixtus IV , 772 A.D.
this new stone foot bridge was built 1473-‘79

on the middle of the span
a guy sleeping on one side
three guys begging on the other
haphazard semi -skilled professionals,
raggity lousy beggars really, too intimidating
real poor people don’t often enter Roma’s heart

saw Alex when i crossed to Piazza Trilussa
out posting flyers for his music school,
footwork keeping his dream a reality
one well- placed notice at a time

then, sat outside at San Callisto coffee car
near the main piazza, Santa Maria in Trestevere
had a latte and cornetto with James,
off booze five years ago
he’s planning to open a school for children

bought a vegetable sandwich for 1.60 euro
pizza bread, tomatoes, cheese, some greens,
costs 4 euro on the other side of the river

back across the bridge, flashing blue lights
on an emergency van
they took away that sleeping man
didn’t run the siren when they left
the blue flashing lights were off
a some body that won’t need rushing

fusion

i missed fusion the first time
like missing an exploding dinosaur
unless you were kin,
in the kitchen with it when it happened,
or it owed you money
it’s nothing to regret

outside the apple of the witch
with castle lights across the river
amid heavy traffic and exhaust
under flying clouds and half moon
running, as from a dog
Giacomo picked me up, took me to the Auditorium,
Rome’s fantastic new home of concerts

to hear his nephew with five others doing fusion
music on speed and steroids
melted glass frozen and shattered
then dark and mysterious
growing into a tyrannosaurus spitting bits of pterodactyl
morphing into a runaway locomotive
a turbulent nightmare
expect a giant Schwarzenegger Terminator to rip
through the walls
have a nice day
oh, and look both ways

armed and to the point

so elderly neighbor lady
sees M. outside
leaves house of disease
and saunters over

fumbling with her hands,
asks sotto voce
after checking both ways
if we’ll be leaving soon for Italy

then nods as if helping
with the anticipated answer.
M. says The Man has left
while she’ll go in another week

neighbor lady sagely nods again,
considers, and says
uh, call if there’s any problem
a long pause

M. leans on the rake,
waiting her out
under long blue November skies

until at last neighbor lady,
fearing for M’s safety
clears her throat ,
quite serious now, glances askance
then looks earthward
to humbly explain

that if M. calls
uh, her husband,
the grumpy mid-octogenarian
will run right over
in the middle of the night (chuckle)
as he’s licensed to carry a loaded weapon. (OMG!)

this is the groundskeeper who mows
three times a day
with various loud riding mowers
because six of our vagrant leaves
have carried deftly his way
on the prevailing
autumn light winds

the field of flowers

Campo dei Fiori means field of flowers
that was yesterdays vision of the area
today in 2009 i had to stop and look both ways
to cross through the center of the field of flowers

i wore my heavy jacket
others had on t-shirts
from our third floor dungeon window
i have to lean far out only to see the sky

the market is jumping in full flavor and scents
traffic, food stalls, fruits and vegetables, pots and pans
musicians, tourists, workers and locals of every venue
and yes, three stands that sell flowers

living nearby i woke out of dream to a persistent car alarm
and thought of the keystone cops in silent movies
running, clamoring, bumping into each other in comic confusion
in silent films the words flash on the screen. this says - alarm

only no one ran today, nothing unusual happened
no one laughed
for an hour the persistent, clear-voiced, changing squeal sang,
echoed along stone buildings and cobblestone streets

i awoke after twelve hours sleep
now a week has passed since i flew here
groggy yet, my body’s clock
is wound but not set

the cannon on the hill fired the noon shot as i left our apartment
to rid myself of the alarm
better to enter the field of flowers
and look both ways

now and tomorrow

met up with an old friend on the street
said he was working with a friend who yesterday
was sitting in a chair calmly talking with his wife
and then died quite unexpectedly

i continued on my way to the Laundromat
the door was wide open when i got there
the fire department chopped it open
to get to the flames the night before

walking back home i stopped to see a friend
of my friend who last year had a stroke
on a cruise ship to Italy
was robbed when he got here

had planned to visit his cousin in Switzerland
she died the day before he boarded the train
not the family visit he expected
he arrived in time for a funeral

but i stopped to see a friend of that friend
i pass that store on my way home
they said she didn’t work there anymore
her last day was yesterday

it’s true for all of us
the last day we had was yesterday
generally we don’t think of it that way
what’s our concern is now and tomorrow

dusk on the way home

dusk on the way home
saw Alberto at Porta Blu
afternoon classes underway
seekers of art ability
drawing circles, mixing color
perusing modern ways

walking back in evening’s cool air
on a narrow way into Piazza Navona
i pass the minister of the interior
a glint of recognition in his eye
in dusk darkness and alley shadow
i see him only when we are face to face
he lives around the corner from me
usually his guards are in formation
and then it is easier to see him coming

leaving the piazza i was distracted
and forgot to look again at the beauty
passing earlier today i paused a while
in the sight and scent of that grand piazza
to admire Bernini’s work again
the two smaller fountains with mythical characters
the larger splashing waters in the center
tribute to four great rivers
topped by an Egyptian obelisk
reaching above all
tomorrow i may look again

now it’s to home
too cool without a jacket anyway
a few paces before Campo dei Fiori
the tune Autumn Leaves from the familiar sax
of a group urging coins from tourists
floats in the air, ricochets off cold stone
where, as years pass changes are small steps taken
seems that autumns are reluctant to come and go

your call

your call
will be answered
in the order
in which it was received

i called once
how much order is one call?
was I out of order before I called
or as soon as?

why can’t it be said in English
like, wait your turn on hold
until a human is available
or, is that like difficult?