you just get on board

warped in mind they emerge from airport swirl
we train along with other weary passengers
to the central station in Roma, the Termini
then got on a bus, it departs

looking back we notice not all of us got on the bus
Kate is standing there
good bye, goodbye, Kate, fare thee well
we’ll find you in about a month,

it’s a big city,
if we look for you
if you’re lucky,
if the gypsies don’t get you first and sell you

miracle of miracles, never have i seen this,
just as i wave goodbye
the bus stops, and waits for her
their vacation is saved

and now it begins in earnest,
we’ll run them, fun them
let them sleep when the vacation is over,
for this is a trip of a lifetime, more or less, we’ll see
i don’t want to exaggerate

poemcholia

at times after i write them
i want to hold them tight then,
not turn my pet mice-like poems loose
out of the sock drawer to scamper, taking flight

snap-like go-now puppies on the run
out on their own rolling
beyond my control
out of reach, out of sight

crossing the street
against the light,
a lone drifter may find them and take comfort
some blue dark eerie night

that’s okay, though It’s still not through
cause then, of my poems,
what is left will creep around
eventually, to snuggle up with you

so it’s all okay,
i think
therefore i am okay,
i think

thank

thanks for looking
attention is a starting point
for rounds beyond bounds, yes it is
thanks for being you,
you have something on your sleeve there

every encounter
your pleasant manner charms
i know it isn’t easy
there’s certainly plenty with which to contend
i thought someone was checking invitations

you do well
i’ve got to say
my friend, see you again
another day
that’s his mother’s coat i recognize it

when you don’t quite understand
what is going on
it’s always better
to keep one hand
on your wallet

walk with me

walk with me this chill afternoon for a stretch, a dash
to capture light between buildings on our waning grey afternoon,
giving change to this day, hiding away from cold light drizzle,
it is winter and we have become weary of the season

while in this ancient city, Roma, it’s a traveler’s duty to lurk
these miserable damp streets, grey stone lanes we know well,
above , lights cast gay walking shadows on fine lace draperies
in grand high-life quarters, of which we’re forever strangers

a dark hovel is our consolation, dreary chamber we can afford,
fragrant luxury is wafting from farther down the street,
there, anointed families that have treasured this area for generations,
while, as fate would have it, we measure as the unfortunate newcomers

briefly passing through this place, we are contending,
dodging history in the evolution of the extended saga,
as a smudged foot note, on a page in the chronicle of events
that will carry well on, beyond us, murky into the long forever

Shahjan

this waiter at Bufetto Due
immigrated from Bangladesh,
has been working here three years,
during pre- crowd time we chatted

a good and gentle soul,
observant to see a kindred spirit,
took time to exchange words
brought us a lemoncello in parting

though only an acquaintance,
and heaven knows they come and go,
i wish Shahjan well on the journey
and peace, and happiness, i surly do

learning to help

pre-Christmas two years ago
all was quiet, even the mice, until
i crossed the street in front of a bus
fell and broke my wrist in three places

by the time i made it home
M. had a fine evening meal prepared
so i ate, needing only one arm for soup,
it was delicious, then went to the hospital

considerate M. waited four days
before she fell and broke her ankle,
our first broken bones were a teaching,
as we spent the holidays helping each other

the radio on

the radio on while driving
matching wits with news makers
often winning arguments, yelling out the window
i go on auto pilot,

making new slogans for commercials
often forgetting to signal,
with the window open i get wet
persistence keeps me on the road

i have learned to turn the wipers on,
lights would be fine if i could find them,
paying attention while driving is a good idea,
but i don’t seem the type

if lost i keep going
as long as there is gas in the tank
i know i could drive a taxi
those that i assist will tip me

of time

as it should be
tomorrow is unknown
and will arrive
in due time

it is far more advantageous
to retread carefully
lessons to be learned
from yesterdays

snowfall joy / blizzard of Roma

snowfall joy
from warm looking out
see those flake giants

barging down elbow to elbow
churning thick
tumbling fat boys

elated, she got me outside
hat gloves scarf bundled
treading the rare blizzard of Roma

where Piazza Navona is white open,
a snowball or two launched in Campo dei Fiori
then all too soon, sun comes out

off center

oh, bus in the rain
i’m back again, do you hear me
feeling no pain
only a little, look, i’m riding

must be the cold,
i can do dreary, getting old, and consider,
combine that with wet, not complaining yet,
see, like i said, it’s raining

talked to a guy from the Congo
studying on about priestly stuff
when i heard and had enough
got off the bus, lead by pure inspiration

M. said to ask those mechanics three
it was M., them and me
they pointed to a place - across the street
it’s good, they said, where we always eat

and just as i heard them say
was a mighty fine buffet
with prices better
this quick bus ride away, slightly off center

open ended conversation

on the radio
some call to say something
others call in
to be heard

walking down the street some talk
on the phone a long time
without pause for the other
is anyone really there?

always there are those
on the bus ceaselessly talking
fogging the window,
and have no phone

out styling

walking up a block
on Victtorio Emanuele where ahead is
a woman glowing several opposing colors, long skirt,
shawl, head dress, conflicting designs, and bangles

shoes mainly bright purple
with sparkles and curling trim,
bent low, working on a bag
what is this?

gypsies have gone conventional these days,
disguised away from tradition to blend in
facial features, eyes and hair identify them
surly this throwback must . . .

the woman stands and turns my way
by her face and hair
i she is Italian, evidently a
fashion statement out styling

to genial grey shoe man

to genial grey shoe man
again this week, where fifteen euro
resole and re-heel the repentant,
i bid two pair

one pair unaccepted, condemned
to hopeless misery, mine,
sticker them -
caution, for home use only

along the return way
wood man on cobblestone lane
before his shop working a cabinet into being
in greeting for me spontaneously

sang a made up song
i’ll translate - “the situation with my sister
doesn’t go well.”
i laughed out loud

between buildings
slats of sun
dump warmth out of season,
most desirable

heard a sound

heard a sound
in bed
going round
in my head

thought
it odd
i said
and thought it out

‘til it was gone
turns out
i was right
it was odd

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