the morning

with the commotion at night, the way
the moon and stars rock around
you’d think we would hear stretching sounds
or at least an echo

rising is the nature of the business
on the quick side of the clock
in first light, birds and critters, me and you
after a good sleep night, got ‘a go

the morning has its strength on then
straight up and at it, when, no horsing around
you can watch it go, my heavens.
time rolling into another new day rhythm

i love the sidewalks then
dashed with a streak
bright as butter yellow when
sneaking through the trees

Retro Rita Hayworth

on the jolly little bus again
for sure arrived via time machine
how else would heels like that get here
to pirouette uneven cobblestones?

as newbees eating ice cream in the rain,
hop aboard in place, in packs, presently isolated
hats on backwards face to face on the little traveler,
this gondola through the maze.

italian, german, inter european, extro mundo
from far north, far east and the americas.
hear them in groups like squirrels chattering,
flashing dreams and fears, some brave outspoken.

retro Rita has stockings
with a long line up the back of her leg.
phone out and twirling it, undecided
what is next to conquer in the ancient city today.

we finished dinner

the olives can go in the refrigerator
is what she said to me
can they now? that got my attention,
i looked at her

didn’t believe her, not then.
that was absolutely not true.
those olives can’t go anywhere,
watch them; even if they tried.

i know for a fact, no doubt about it.
take a load off, olives,
you can put the load right on me.
your going days are over.

Rome winter dark

heavy jackets abound, zip 'em
this grey day soaking mystery
hats on, umbrellas out and up
collars furry snug an' high

walkin' wrapped an' head down,
dampened sound, scarves tight around
through slush against wind chill we are
wading, by shops closed, traffic’s light

an’s only past noon by the clock
look ahead, more’s on the way
just you wait wait until tonight an' dark,
o'course we fear tomorrow’d be a similar day.


continued:
it snowed last night, a bit and cold.
many out walking taking photos
no snow falling now, enough we have
Rome is freezing, closed for the day.

in the key of life

i heard the marching band go down the street
the school’s a block over
i’m reading, thinking while upstairs a worker
finishes, hopefully, tile in the bathroom

some pictures, i see where i could hang a few
overall the old house is coming along
this the second year sharing life with contractors
give us a break, wrap it up, how much can we take?

not writing enough everyday has me off pace
though the year rolls warm and friendly
i note 67 creeping my back stairs
you can find out how old is some day

nights i dream of things to write
instead of getting up to make notes
i sleep thru and tell myself i’ll remember
you know, those distant trains hardly wake me anymore

parking at all costs

walked our streets today
searching space where i may
move, not me, my vehicle, see,
so the car not far is going to be.

in this old town it’s tight, you know,
parking is a premium, so
if available, although it's free,
you need a card on your dash like me,

printed with the correct information
then authorities from the traffic station
can read i walked the walk, got papers and paid the price
to park near, all because i live here where it's rather nice.

January squeeze

‘bout squeezed all the January
we’re goin’a get out of this one;
can’t cut off some of the rind;
no scent left to save for later.

so did you use
this month as expected,
‘bout how you wanted it to unfold,
or did you even think ahead at all?

planning goes right fine along,
neigh on to a point, and then,
there’s an amount of stuff,
call it stuff, that just happens.

here's when best wishes come in,
so figure what you goin'a do;
cha-cha right into another month.
Mr. Fate is following you.

gold country

was long ago,
did i really live there,
San Francisco?
like wine don’t you?

other fog may be thick,
in San Fran it’s romantic.
morning sun on the golden gate
where red/orange is the color.

how about all those boats on the bay!
lived on one ten years with our cat,
and the U.S. navy flying over in jets
putting on a show. mind if they roar?

hi Karl Malden window shopping Maiden Lane.
a store with a little outdoor food festival
in front of the radio station where i worked
my young son asked if it was a fish fry?

M. thought the car parking too expensive
pulling into the lot she saw the sign:
seven dollars min.
waved me off saying not there, go, go.

no way
would we pay
seven dollars
a minute.

famous attorney Melvin Belli
sat in his devilishly wonderful old office
conspicuously on display downtown
with a large window for all to look in
don’t bother to wave at him
he’s working

so much more,
Tony Bennet on his birthday
at a table in the next room.
George Lucas at our agency party

and Something-to-do Bob
in the lot, crawling good morning
out from under his overturned skiff
chin up sincerely asking, “day do you have?”

friends and sea breeze
fresh out of the west.
all in gold country,
one i loved best
we loved it the best

phone message

this is harsh.
get ready to boo.
now this volley
could be aimed at you.

you are annoying
if you have a phone message
with everything on it
except your name.

why hide your name, i have your number?
and don’t repeat the number i dialed.
i know that part already. what i need to know
is if the person i called is there.

how can i leave word with an unknown?
i won’t leave a message
so someone can call back to say
i left word at the wrong number.

if I call you i want the message
to tell me it is you, right away,
or - no message for you.
now have a nice day.

an if i ever have a job
where i have to call and tell you
you won an enormous amount of money
and you don’t have your name on the message

i’ll hang up,
leave my station,
quit the job , pocket your cash
and take a long vacation.

a lifetime forever

to live a lifetime forever
on a mountain under eternal noon sun
with sweet wine touching lips that touch mine

where the omnipresent fragrance of soft flowers
and gentle green
caress thoughts
and cradle in your mind mellow notions

the only sound being
two hearts playing
the softest lullaby in creation



first published August 06, 2008

when i woke

when i woke i had you on mind
must have sung song your song ten thousand times
and every time i start
it’s like cannons in my heart
going off half-cocked
while i’m half blind
i fear i better stop
afore i lose my mind
how in hell did i get myself in such a bind

Porta Portese

often we have wandered
the Sunday market at Porta Portese
do pay attention when you go
into the psycho mad circus crowded zoo

when weaving around
winding through the buzz
keep a hand on your wallet
before anyone else does

legions sell anything and everything
to would-be buyers in the slew
questions asked will be responded to
with answers custom fit for you

for a price
if you like
and it's right
pay up and take it, do

laughing to the extreme

was in the hospital,
had my appendix removed
three of us in a room
one guy told jokes.

he was hysterically funny.
made one poor guy laugh so hard
he broke his appendix stitches
had to be wheeled back and sewn again

day two more jokes from funny guy
same guy broke his stitches laughing again
day three it happened a third time
they wheeled funny guy to a private room

the color of reflection

from the porch of a mountain lake cabin
i painted the scene
a new sedan parked in the shade
under tall pines was the prominent theme

surroundings were rendered to my satisfaction
but the reflection in the car windshield,
a smoky, somber still blue sky perfection
came forth in just the right grayed hue

the mixture of color, and pure good fortune
made it happened, for although i’m experienced,
art in free pure spirit form, that works well at a glance,
often comes down to a matter of chance.

kid threw

kid threw a ball across the street
meri saw and crossed over to get it
before she was back
the kid threw two more across

these are little kids
ages three and two
big throws the ball
little stands and watches

learning ways of the world
from their own front yard
the mother talks, their eyes glisten
but they don’t appear to hear or listen

crowd talking

people are crowd talking
jammed on their phones
in cars, on city streets
hear the chatter?

doesn’t matter,
keep moving.
though i’m surprised more aren’t
running into each other.

in the future you’ll hear
talk crossing the borders of time
“Mr. Lincoln on line three.”
“Again? . . . tell him i’m in a meeting.”

when phones are imbedded
we can walk around talking
to everyone who isn’t there. RING!
“i’ll get it . . . since i’m the only one here. hello?”

“ i’m callin’ Michael uh Jackson , tell him it’s Elvis’s.”
“Oh, i recognize your voice, Elvis.”
“Well, will ya put Michael on.”
“i’m sorry, Elvis, you have the wrong number.” click!

Rome seen as a park

Saturday we walked a bit
a block beyond the Coliseum,
off the end of the Circus Maximus
by Roman ruins, under an old church,

out into a park with parrots and benches,
sunshine and shade, trees and peace;
it was as if we were some hundred miles away,
this sanctuary in the center of the ancient city.

now today got up and showered
selected attire appropriate
so then decked out right for our day
walked the bowed crest of the old bridge.

first stopping in sunshine, in the middle
to see the calm, wide moving river below
and walkers on one sidewalk side down there,
the Vatican dome straight off a half mile away.

that’s how we got to Trestevere
where we had coffee amid locals
saw only a dog or two out today
looking, listening, in good humor, having fun

seems everyone was taking Sunday easy
and that, you know ’s proven the best way.
so overall uneventful yet pleasant this Sunday
you don’t even need a weather report about it.

let me say right now
that this slow, dull, average day
and this entire weekend was all around okay
to the point of being worth mentioning.

two extremes

walking this narrow centuries old lane
under shade rendered by old stone buildings
on our narrow cobblestone way
a young mother ahead is pushing
an empty stroller with her right hand
stooped forward holding the hand
of her tiny toddler with her left
as he advances in hesitant wobbly steps
i amble alongside them
in tentative pace indicative of age

on the graph of human existence
heading along the path of life
aside the mother are two extremes
one is nearly there
the other fresh out of the gate

in box

you have your in box
and you have your out box
that seems clear enough
now let’s take a look at them

do you want to chat and blend a conversation
invite a third party or more
how about you do it in an elevator
or on a train, in your pocket in the rain,

make it tiny with a phone, put plugs in your ear,
include photos, movies
distort the voice. what? no 3D?
baby has one with a rattle on it.

give me the old ways
like bows and arrows
three bears and Goldilocks
an in box and an out box

busy

ok, so, i'm busy, you're busy,
that's fine, now to continue:
i do read poetry i don't get.
it is either beyond me or crap, or mostly crap.

then there is the good stuff,
really fine, you’ve seen it.
literally beyond me.
i understand that situation.

it’s like fencing,
mask, vest and foil
against a professional opponent
could cut you to ribbons,

or at least prong you well, for sure.
but anyone claiming to be
a professional fencer
is either lying or a 300 year old pirate.

now, thinking of people who read blog poetry,
weep and read it three times,
and weep themselves to sleep. hey, read a book
or clean the house, it’s better for everyone.

to read for enjoyment.
with dictionary on my knee.
is not, i say, not my cup
of soup, of wine or tea.

i’m old fashioned, spoiled.
and prefer to understand what i read.
so don’t try to impress,
just entertain me.

poetry is a gift
for the people.
make it easy
to unwrap.

i had some of my paintings
sent back from Rome, and then
with knives and scissors and rolling on the floor,
it took a half hour sweat to open the package.

were they afraid of attack
by the mad mailed-picture pirates,
or are they paid by
how much tape and string they use?

that’s it; and now, to both of us
good luck, good day, soups on.
be on your way. let’s be on our way.
you’re busy, i’m busy

Cincia's roots

late this sunlit afternoon i passed Cincia,
a lovely good heart with long hair,
half owner of the vintage clothing shop
across the way on this old narrow lane.

“The metal discs of the street cleaner
yesterday nearly tore into the vine.”
checking we saw the stem unscathed.
“In spring it blooms full and beautiful,” she said.

one cobblestone removed, so it grows by the wall,
swings high, arching over the entire doorway.
she planted roots when they opened there.
“was that three years ago?”

looking up at the vine contently,
“It has now been six years,” she said,
i said softly, “Time does pass.”
nodding with a soft smile she said, “It runs.”

Gene Hackman

“Gene Hackman was hit by a bicycle in Florida.”
how brutal.
“no, a vehicle hit him on his bicycle”
either way is bad.

“He wasn’t wearing a helmet”
it is nine a.m. in Rome, Italy
and i wake to this?
he’s not my uncle.

“I thought he lived in New Mexico.”
never met the man.
are we still going to the big market?
“He’s 82 years old”

i hear you’re going to start your blog again, M.
“I’ll knock you out of the sandbox, turkey, under the fence.”
over the fence
“Either way. Grrrr.”

pardon me?
“ I’ll be ready in a minute for my close up, Darling., ”
what do we need to take to the market?
“Hell or high water.”

Abdul of Senegal

Abdul of Senegal,
six years a Roman
opens the laundry at nine
or thereabouts.

i know this of the good hearted fellow:
he is sleek, tall, gentle,
speaks bits of English,
blurry Italian, his French is fine.

brought me a coffee today and a croissant,
why ? i offered to buy,
he insisted and got us one each.
i stayed, did my wash and recalled

two years ago Abdul said Paris ..
there he was ready to live.
today New York, says he.
yes, give him Gotham to gnaw.

he is thirty and is ready
to roll faster, deeper now
over into the turmoil of the world.
we do live our dreams, so it seems.

back now and on a computer,
he is searching, looking
i interrupted to ask if there were elephants
and are there lions in Senegal.

without hesitation at my banal query
“in parks there are”, he said. i nodded.
oh, the deviated realm in which we live.
as our world gets larger, the world gets smaller.

city magnum

in the little rolling box
bumpy high-speed turns
after the holidays
tourists have evaporated

long hair, long stockings
gets on the tiny bus
sits, crosses her legs
very long stockings

guy sits opposite
we’re only three
facing each other
she talks, says a bad word

says a major multi bad phrase
the guy listens
watching her legs
she says more bad

words in obvious anger
he asks “husband?”
she says, “brother.”
here’s my stop

she leaves also
began as strangers
ciao-ciao, ciao-ciao, ciao
part like family

shake it off
just another trip
into city magnum
happens like often

3:54 a.m.

blacker than midnight
no light
spare the red glow
of the clock

went to the bathroom
briefly turned on a small flashlight
to check in the toilet
twenty years ago a rural friend told me

he always checks the bowl
now i always look
he is old now, i owe him
i need to renew his agony

when i see him next time
i’ll remind him by asking
if a snake bit him
on the balls yet.

stopped at a tintaria

stopped at a tintaria, door was open.
the name implies they dye material.
more often these days it’s dry clean they do,

a kind man i found there, always a good start;
re hooked the slider on my coat zipper in a minute
so it works like new again. he did. i’m grateful.

i said the fine service was worth fifty euro
he said one hundred and twenty. we laughed.
he charged me nothing. that’s fine too.

this is the city. we both were aware
that i may never stop again there.
he did the job; in these lines i remember him.

no state to deny

a pop up on my computer reads,
“your pc is in a perfect state.”
it is trying to convince me, however unlikely,
for my computer’s never been a lot of places.

though i reason, as for state, i'm in italy
where the consensus is: nothing is perfect.
as perhaps Italy is a state, meaning -
a condition: like insomnia.

although equated with a state of grace
there is no rational for some beliefs;
they are unexamined, tossed around
enough to be overrated yet acceptable.

with the favorite reason being:
that is how it has always been done.
don’t ask questions, don’t whine.
heads down, stay in line.

any fine day

put two hundred strangers,
some jetlagged,
whirling in a crowd
out of order,

around tents, hand carts
small dogs and corners;
meander an electric bus
through the middle,

plus bicycles and motrorinos
on all sides.
now pigeons on the ground
in the center of it all

hopping, running,
bobbing their heads, pecking
stretching their wings,
turning their heads.

half cover lightly
with rolling low clouds,
add brisk winds
and you're in the campo packed laughing,

wondering why those
quick dashing pigeons
never get bumped, run over
or stepped on.

to market

I.

M. has arrived,
with no space for jet lag.
step aside please,
we’re heading to market.

first buy bus passes,
for she must be orderly, precise, never nonplussed.
those tickets checkers will get you if you’re without.
a fifty euro fine now, sixty-five if you pay later.

II.

seated facing everyone from the very back of the bus.
along our way a young man shouted
into his cell phone for all to hear.
perhaps as a youngster he spent his hours

yelling into a tin can tied on a string.
maybe someone was on the other end
with similarly rigged equipment,
maybe not.

IV.

i went along and did not sing
or read or sleep, just hung on,
for a bus over cobblestones
does much up and down bumping.

now we're both here, winter’s near.
to market and back,
as we settle in.
seems like old times.

the uniform

i saw the uniform in the open door of the closet,
hung pressed like new, was civil war blue
with a narrow yellow side stripe and metal buttons.
with boots, gloves, hat and sword in scabbard.

her husband’s or her father’s, i don’t recall.
she has since gone the long away.
i could call to ask my old friend George,
though we haven't talked since we were children.

and where has that fragment been,
that which i carry in my head?
when now so many years have gone by,
there remains only a thread.

not even my story, someone else’s life
hanging blue in the closet that isn’t there.
even that building exists only
in old worn photos and scant memories.