way out to lunch

I have to report, because someone will comment about M. getting sick last week and my timing was off, so I’ll explain: this poem was getting warmed like buns in the oven since last week. I generally write them as they occur. Occasionally this is a diary of sort, but this time other things crept in and this piece had to wait.

So the story is that M. had the fever and is now ok. You can bank on it. So now read about it.


way out to lunch

out to good food lunch,
maybe the air was bad, of vegetable we had
a colorful mood bunch,
she liked it, that’s my hunch

though she didn’t say,
just went home then, the bus ride way, easy,
later that evening
she began feeling queasy

when up came a flash fever
she decided to chuck it,
couldn’t just leave her,
so i manned the bucket

rode the bus

rode the bus,
tourist window on the world,
fewer buses now in Roma
and they’re driving faster to make up for it

i don’t think we are supposed to notice the
cost saving measure, but i was seat sliding.
as we spun around a corner i reminded myself
the pleasure of dying in an accident

there is no prolonged advance worry before hand
like applying jelly to toast,
the knife hangs suspended,
then swipe, that’s it.

turned 65 so i paid half, 16, for a month bus ticket
now i ride twice as much to make up
for all the other years i paid double,
i think i can do it, i think i can, i think i can

Roma is changing face from winter to spring.
i pull out pen and paper to make note of
the two conditions of retirement:
nothing to do, too much to do

incident report from Rocco’s pizza,
dear sweet happy Claudia from Romania
got her vial tapped by the gangly mushroom man
long may they run, and happy together

got out in front of the bookstore at Largo Argentina
a grey worn tenor sax man in his late seventies,
with jazz music in the forties, has some stuff,
playing for hours, solo, for infrequent coins

as i drop him some, he slowly looks me steady in the eye.
insurance for my future, could be me some day
my wife pointed out that i don’t play sax
pshaw . i told her i could learn

backing up to see a phone number over a door
i fell back into a large flower pot, pot and i both ok.
i’m wearing my mail man shoes today,
got them resoled for 15 euro, met a new friend.

at the center of Piazza Cavour on the head of the statue
of Count Camillo Cavour who forged the kingdom of Italy,
two birds stand side by side appropriately
at pigeon attention

half hour later back on the bus
caught myself humming
the sax man’s tune -
Ecstasy

b. dylan

word got out, came around,
about this young guy
making music in the Village
knew he changed his name from Zimmerman

saw his wild strange mess photo,
and his songs came in on radio,
tried to wake us up, talked for us,
kept coming, slapping us awake

he wasn’t Peter, Paul or Mary
his voice and diction were unruly disorder,
played a funky guitar, so that
his harmonica was a dissonant plus

but his words, oh, the words were tight
they were packed weights, color and light,
riding melodies that rang hearts and minds,
even the timing for his coming was right

we wanted and needed him
there was a space in culture just then,
an opening wide enough for him to joggle through
tip his cap and be Bob Dylan for us all

there was math involved

when i was a kid i put a firecracker
into a lunch box
lit it and closed the lid
and threw it into my closet

i peaked to see the lid blowing off
then opened windows to get the grey smoke out,
when mom came home i told her so she’d quit worrying
cause she smelled the smoke

if i built that real moon rocket a few years later,
the explosion would have blown it to smithereens,
they had the thing go up for real, it did
and kept going up and up and out and far

now, before it happened the word was out
real good, because everyone knew,
even the night was perfect that July,
and the astronauts took a camera along

good planning to have a camera for everyone
everywhere in the world to watch it live,
the picture wasn’t perfect
that hardly mattered, there it was,

we saw Neil Armstrong come down that ladder
we knew his name right away, and that he was from Ohio
and we heard his words when
he stepped his boot in black and white into moon dust

we sat on the floor eating popcorn, as close
as we could get to Walter Cronkite, the TV and the moon
when he said one small step for man,
one giant leap for mankind

poetry began at the Ritz Theater

a scratched nineteen thirties movie
black and white, new way back once upon a time,
quality withered, it used to be so sharp
but who knows where that film was stored for years

hear clicking, the projector runs the sprockets
house lights dim, Mr. Mattee has a flashlight,
the smell of popcorn drifts and fills the air,
previews, the cartoon then the grand theme starts

filmed at dusk, there are fires
with nine hundred extras changing costumes
to be the villagers, the Vandals and than an invading army
fought inside, over and along ancient castle walls

of course there were towers, a moat and stirring music
and that’s the true story how i began writing poetry
when i was a kid, before that i thought about it
but wasn’t serious

how we pass our lives

how we pass our lives,
more than eat, sleep, work and play
it’s commitment to the running quest, the arts,
seeking to reach the best in every way

and the people we know, the wonderful people,
what they say, what they choose,
these things we relate to, a veritable love
day to day, win or lose

reflections on those i’ve known assist me
to evaluate position here in life, my own,
we must maintain control, be diligent, yet go easily,
while throttle open, wheeling free

of friends

of friends,
and our times
precious, special

when we meet and talk
inch our way
discovering who we are

taking food and drink together
sharing laughter
building the good hours

but people do move away
and it comes so sudden
when they are gone

best wishes, to all friends near and far,
and thank god we have pleasant memories,
warm like red hearth fire coals that linger on

i was born on

i was born on Steinbeck’s birthday
and have always liked the smell of ocean
also born the same day as Elizabeth Taylor
but haven’t married eight times . . . yet

i also share my day with Emperor Constantine
his year of birth is debatable,
you'd think they'd have kept better records
on leaders of the civilized world

just guessing now, but i
could have been born on Moses birthday
but his calendar didn’t have a February
anyway i’m of Polish descent not Egyptian

and if i were to leave my homeland, for sure
i'd never take thousands of people with me
and irritate the Pharaoh so terribly
that he'd chase me with his army



oh, and Longfellow's birthday too,
can't forget about him
else thing have to do
is write dis all again

Dumpling Realizer

without a glitch she passed
through the force field poles
that undoubtedly scan shoppers for weapons
or maybe just make pictures for the boys in the back room

as into market fighting for position, she goes
we’re having soup she said, i saw zucchini laid in a line,
a clerk with a braid came to her aid, once or twice,
she bought magic stuff to make dumplings

amid a symphony of vegetables, meat and a lot of cheese
she had taken her wheeled cart along
the one that is Scotch red and blue plaid,
i have no idea why they decided to spell plaid that way

we paid for all, including her Dumpling Realizer
what most earthlings call baking powder,
i thought i’d mention that,
as it is the name of this poem

braid, maid, raid, laid,
paid, aid, and plaid
there i said it,
and i’m glad

too much to ask

this may be
too much to ask,
it’s not really necessary,
we could leave it for last

but do i really need it?
it could be quite a task,
oh well, don’t bother,
forget i asked

out of time

difficult for me
to imagine the chapter,
walking my familiar street
in some other time, before or after

sooner or later, no matter
with no key in my pocket to unlock it
or permission to enter
because my door belongs to another

and the stuff inside there
is someone else’s now
or hasn’t happened yet
in another time, wow

to market

Isfahan's Grand Bazaar,
dates from the 10th century
is largely covered
and ten kilometers long

The Tehran's Grand Bazaar
is also ten kilometers long.
The Grand Bazaar of Istanbul
built in the 15th century,

is still one of the largest covered
markets in the world,
has more than 58 streets
and 4,000 shops

yet, i can moan congestion
and impatience when in line
at the tiny local market
with three people in line ahead of me

enjoy my words

enjoy my words, take a spin,
they are yours to hitch on
i’ve put them down for you again
but you know them in your heart

like the sun and the rain and the stars,
the wind and the snows
and the moon that rolls over head too
for all of them and love, for me, for you

and the fishes in the seas
and the bears in the woods
the birds in the sky
and the horse you rode in on

snow is on the way

snow is on the way
let’s sit back and watch time slip away
the kettle’s on the boil now
and the sun shot it’s last ray
let’s call it a day

if i

if i wasn’t running at the limit
floored in the fast zone
with three giant double rigs
trying to pass me on a curve

i’d jam your mailbox with fragment
flower pieces exploding fragrant color.
any time you like, say you need me,
i’ll be there

evaluating

evaluating after, how it came to pass,
the quick visit, our participation
they came, we there for them here,
around Roma then beyond, hang on

between rains and scattered sunshine
a meal to remember, the man, the ambiance, flavors,
a train ride, hilly green country along the way
photos taken, everywhere history on display,

people rushing, passing glimpses, no names,
man with blue funny hat, beggars, young people talking loudly,
others become connections, we talk, exchange names
proving - open of mind you discover

had to pay eleven euro to enter the museum
my birthday 65 is next week, then i enter free damn me free,
the young man at the counter said his line as it was written,
i saw it as a chance for humanity to work out details together,
overall i was seven days short and eleven euro lighter

back to their trip, in a nutshell, made choices
saw this, missed this other
no time for that, or i didn’t think of it
or was closed for the day, save some for next time

overall , the familial trip ends, what said remembered sketchy
air plane in, air plane out
flash trip snap, then zap, it’s over
Kodak had it right, we need photos,
besides - that’s what drawers are for

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