Friday, March 20, 2015

yo, you


to you, see
so near, so far
by bus, by car

i'm kidding you
it's always bus

to market, trionfale
mark that down and take a list
or only have a few things in mind
going there. it's what i can hold
a few thing in my mind

if you look at a map
but never mind, no one does
unless you're driving, or walking
not bus riding. need only
look for the sign, at the sign
on a pole, waiting for you to look at it

all days, even eclipse ones
that comes every hundred years
like we're in today...
what can i say; but wait
there'll be another,
you know how it goes.

comes and goes
heaven knows
the little secrets the sun lets out
every now and then
when it feels right.
my my, my my.
say it - my, my, my
let the sunshine.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Bond be


the film-making lights remain,
by the river, and a big yellow crane,
not the bird kind, the metal type.
Rain'll be here Sunday, so will Bond be.

i bought an ice cream cone today,
saw the evidence by the river.
it's only a block away. had to look
because people were crowding around.

tonight at ten they'll be shooting
and a scooting. i'll be in bed,
listening to the helicopter, rooting
for the guy in the silver aston-martin.

Monday, March 09, 2015

yell at a dog



yell at a dog
it'll feel bad...look sad
and not remember
what he did wrong

Saturday, March 07, 2015

in winter chill


in winter chill
14 youngsters
got off the city bus
orderly, quietly

the wee bundled
bunched together
like tiny sheep
so very well behaved

inside we old
smiled and chuckled
from warmth the sight
gave to our heart

Wednesday, March 04, 2015

the guys on the street



tired gino didn't sleep well
wears jeans with holes and red patches,
and new blonde leather desert boots,
looking forward to lunch, he is

tells some shape of pasta
i didn't understand
and tomato sauce.
he'll eat a lot and be sleepy

mailman on a motorbike stops
distributes packages into metal slots
says a few words to the locals
then continued up the street

i watched and leaned against the wall
contributed little to the conversations
did say it would rain this afternoon
the new local guy was interested

gino was not impressed, per usual
acted like he doesn't hear
has no expression, never does
yet, we're friends, everyone knows that

new guy talks with cinzia
romanesque friends saying nothings,
small talk together
signifying friendship

piccolo manuele struts in
wants to talk to new guy
who tells him, "ten minutes"
and brushes him away.

gino's elderly mother here today
day earlier than usual
he walks her toward franco's
whose wife is sister to Gino's mom

i am accepted now by manuale
he wasn't an ass today
we ignored each other
that's getting along on the street

mario whipped in, didn't speak
we will later, or some time.
he and i know we'll talk
when it happens, when necessary,

just now and then we do.
tough friends on the street.
for us, for the way it is
on via dei cappellari

i can't explain. where there is
no explanation for anything
it's not in the cards to matter
who's dealing or what deck is used.

manuele tries to get new guy away
again new guy holds up his hand
says, "ten minutes", turns his head;
piccolo rides away on his bicycle.



while writing this note
computer starts a scan
decides to reboot

i wait fifteen minutes
to see if the file i was working on
was lost.
it wasn't, this is it.

i suppose this is another
happy ending; though it depends
on how tough you're grading,
or how much pasta gino ate
sorry for the red herring,
just making conversation, poetically.


Saturday, February 28, 2015

also ran, not me



birthday 70 out of nowhere
everywhere but facebook
said i was born 1905
FB wishes me happy 110

i join a poetry group online
can i think poetry?
russian major opposition leader
killed in front of kremlin

poetry stares at me
piano wants me play
book wants me write
edit calls for me

read before library
demands books returned
nutball stalker out there
have a nice day, a happy face

melodies want
out of me, me
and you, me, me...
70? not kidding?

i know the wished, not-wished
dark horse racing
through mist over
ever distant hills

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

3061




our phone number - four digits,
used to be three
when i was too young
to think about it

you could dial out of state
with help from the operator.
a little guy, Heinie Kensel,
was the village Morse code operator.

he rode a bicycle to work,
and repaired bikes at home on Adams Ave.,
in a part of town called Oklahoma;
probably cause it was out west of town.

Heinie worked at the train depot.
i'd been there, only for looking around.
a large beamed wooden building
as old as the railroad.

i'm sure someone told me
to get out of there.
it was no place for a kid.
as trains would whizz by.

don't know what messages
were sent and received by code.
could have been to send flowers.
i know it was long distance.

now, even today
the whole set up
remains a long,
long distance.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Antonio Salvatore 2


not absolutely, but maybe,
and that's very close.
poetry, like dialogue,
doesn't read as literature.

that was my disclaimer
prelude to say
of a thousand poems here
the most sought is

the one about my brief encounter
with renowned violinist Antonio Salvatore.
if we met again we
wouldn't know each other

it was a good day for both of us;
life has that happen occasionally;
ducks in a row
and pleasant times occur.


5 years ago we met on a bus,
chatted, end of story, basis for poem.
http://warmingtrend27.blogspot.it/2010/04/antonio-salvatore.html

Monday, December 29, 2014

winter's


some morning outing
when year turned near on end
look toward the sun;
it's softer on your face than plain air.
recall the warmer jacket
with the fluffy, full collar
that waits hung up for winter...
now so near you feel it ready to grab hold
and lay out...long and dark the shadows
so chill...you'll feel them in your bones;
those days breaths are sharp
and come in white puffs;
so many you ignore them.

Friday, December 12, 2014

Hollywood Ways - the book



My book is out.
Way out.
Somewhere out behind the old barn when I was a kid.
Our barn, the neighbors barn. We had barns all over. 
In the 1950's we got a new thing, television.
That box inspired and got me going.
My book is my story
A young man goes to Hollywood with a dream in the 70's;
up and down and up again...and gets along.

Hollywood Ways by Jack Sender - 4 bucks...Merry Christmas.

Monday, December 08, 2014

rest calmly, night


rest calmly night
 
no wind, yet the sea moves 
on slow long breathes in and out;
respiring a sweeping rush of shore pebbles.
folding waters cause an occasional boom on the shore.

the near full moon reflecting
white sparkles in the sea
throws scattered far reaching points of light,
in the nearly-still envelope of evening.
 
how you do it swell.
evening, you're a sweet song
i know you mean well,
i can tell by how you've done.
 




 

Friday, November 28, 2014

persistent stillness



persistent stillness
on Via Baullari.
some vehicles pass, and the electric bus
fewer than most days;
tourists also, and workers.
after nine in the morning
day has begun.

chairs out front Angelo's
ciao to Simone
there is an internal warmth, a kindness,
that radiates unseen and unacknowledged
to us, from Angelo and Simone
this is the understanding of our days.

a dark cappuccino and a cornetto with apple
weather is what you interpret as warmish
Thomas is off to draw near villa Borghese
fine pen and ink lines of buldings,
and we watch Murella up the street
who won't see us today,  our usefulness has diminished.

here is the German woman
at the next table, close enough to reach out and touch,
who never sees us, yet is internally aware.
she's the neighbor who brought the blanket and threw it over Leonardo
the day he was on fire outside my door, and i put out the flames with my hands,
and we've never spoken a word about it.

this is the street i am on today this 28th of November in 2014
dry between the rains, no wind
not cold, not warm.
on the cusp of whatever is coming next

Saturday, November 22, 2014

like waves



pages turn
then closing my eyes
goes easy rolling
after another, another
not rapid though smooth,
continuous. it's dream
on a train. scenes passing.  
heads down cows on green far hills.
constant movement in waves
then  coffee in an unfamiliar bar
somewhat dim and comfortably pleasant.
the worn, rolling wood, beautifully polished.
i turn at my desk at home, sun on my back
warm. i feel it. and remember the train.
calmly looking out the window
so apparent to me
how pleasant a nap can be

Monday, November 03, 2014

lamppost addendum



moving the words around,
choosing them carefully
to tell the true story
the way it always happened
            The draft for what has become The Old Lamppost was written forty years ago, it was one stanza in a much longer poem. Last week I pulled it out and began to develop  it.  (I save all my papers.)  I worked many hours and have several revisions,  I thought about putting them out  somewhere so other poets could see what went on to get the finished product.  When I read other poets I think I'd like to see their drafts to get an idea what they were doing when they worked things out.  . 
                        I was fortunate to hear David McCullough  last year give a talk to a small group at the American Academy in Rome,  and he gave a good lesson when he said,  "I'm not a writer, I am a re-writer." 

Sunday, November 02, 2014

the old lamppost



for many years at the curb
in front of our house on main street
there used to be a large, rusty-repainted,
decorative, cast-iron street lamp

that i clipped grass around during summer,
raked dry leaves around in the fall;
the pole was dark, the paint was dull,
the light from the lamp was dim;

and you know, now and then
on some quiet, still evenings
when the windows were open i'd hear
a car stop, then a bang, and someone swore
when they opened their door on the lamppost.

Friday, October 24, 2014

on the 492



on the 492 to piazza cavour
by tom's coke zero cafe
these streets again, oh my
we are acquainted

Thursday, October 23, 2014

kid pilot



kid pilot flew
small plane to a field
we ran for the bus
12 dollars a night
at the Belmoral

oh, lady, don't worry
you're on Belize time
no hurry
just watch out for
the fer-de-lance

Sunday, October 19, 2014

stick this in your poetry butt




october begins so well, the o  
cirical, i don't have to sell praise about that
and forget looking it up, shakespeare
who's going to invent words if we don't?

then oct is a bit icelandic/germanic don't you know
and iceland is green
and greenland is ice
sell that somewhere else
none of it's jamaica for cryin' out loud

another o is balance, that helps
it needs all it can get

good thing the month ends with a pagan holiday
and don't tell me origins are otherwise
dark, chill, windy, foreboding  skies are for
nonbelievers, non confidants, malcontents
and things that bump in the night

so have a happy holiday
salute yourself
don't stick yourself
though you may, it's a possibility

good thing it ends with ber
cause it's on the way;
and you can go to iceland with the rest of them

good thing no one asked me to name a month
for the result could have been bad for everyone

Thursday, September 11, 2014

i could



I could rush-fire another poem; well, not exactly.   The truth is I can't.  I have to take my time.  There are the pile of  notes that I carry around and add to every day; but where to start?   Which is the poem fragment to work with, the one from the heart? 

When I see a good note i made, because I check them every day, when I see a good note I develop it in to a poem, sometimes.  I'll have to put some of my poems in a book so I can flip the pages and find them; now, Online it is hard to wade through the archives. 

tobacco calms me.
it's like a good deodorant,
gives me confidence.
hell, pilgrim, why i bet i could almost ride a horse . . .
half fast, anyway.

Monday, September 08, 2014

harvest moon



face in the sky
round as a pie
another tune
it's harvest moon

october's soon
just was june
say ta summer sky
a sweet good bye

sky light
sleep tight
and rocka me, baby
let's spoon, tonight