SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY

Stand silently beside several dozen mostly male parishioners murmuring the words like chanting to every prayer outside a stone chapel which holds 12 seated, mostly older women, and the soft spoken Priest, who has been the priest of this parish for well over 50 years, while one old man and two children comb the hillsides for wild strawberries.

Sit at a very long table under a terra cotta tiled portico in the sometimes sun sometimes drizzle and pass small trays of tender succulent wood burning oven roasted venison, herb roasted chicken, tripe, sausages, anchovies, herb marinated bean salads, cold rice salads, potato salads, green salads, baked polenta with fresh porcini mushroom sauce, while people loudly and amicably discuss language, local wine making, the potential of the olive harvest this year, olive curing, and the ongoing recovery process of the land use rights of the people to 1700 hectares of property at Lago Santo ceded to them in the 1600's.

Taste a half dozen home made tortes and cakes while two children wander who knows where and then roll giggling down closely mowed banks.

Drink quantities of very good locally made wine, limoncello, blueberry liqueur, grappa, and finally coffee and not feel over full or drunk, except on the experience.

WANDERLUST

A crystal clear
Christmas day
A late afternoon walk
On a leafy path
On a steep slope
Above the river

Into
The low setting sunlight
Splintered
Through leafless trees

BOUNTY

Firm ripe red globes of pebbled flesh
Hanging hidden beneath and between
Toothed leaves
In dank dirt
On shadow washed banks
That with a feather light fingertip touch fall
Weightless into my palm
The taste of sweet perfume

WAKE UP CALL

There is an alarm clock going off somewhere
Beep beep beep beep beep beep
But then it stops
And then it goes off again
Is it in one of the apartments below
Beep beep beep beep beep beep
Piercing urgent insistent
Is there a warning buzzer on some machine here
Did I misset the clock on the stove again
Is my son playing his Gameboy upstairs
When I have specifically said he may not
Enough electronics for today
I told him
But he has been known to hide under his covers
Thinking I wont discover him
I stand and prepare to confront him
All is quiet and then I hear it again
Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep
My attention is drawn to the window
It is a bird
Deep in the forest.

ART

I hate artspeak
I hate it
When someone says
I know
What the artist meant
I
Could do that

I want to devour
The design
Imbibe
The image
Contemplate
The content
Get off
On the form

There should be a sign
Silence

CROSSING

Crossing paths
Star crossed
Working at cross purposes
Calm frazzled nerves
Working a crossword
And
No
Cross
Words

WHO’S WHO

playing fast and loose with words going off half cocked saying anything and everything un-reasoning that comes to mind without thought or consideration as to the who’s listening and that that who or another who might be hurt by what this who is saying or not saying of the not inconsequential consequences of applying random heat to not inanimate objects like shooting into the void the not listening not hearing top down process of un-living.

OUTFACING GRAVITY

If you really want to know a woman’s age
Look
At her Hands

In a strange inversion
The less attractive I get
The more uninhibited
I become

In this top down process
Note to myself
Wear short skirts
The legs are the last to go

My toes show
Hardly any signs of age
At all

CREATIVITY

Creativity exercises its strict authority
The more beautiful the result
The more anxiety
Satisfaction is shortlived

To assuage this angst
I slam the water
Pump the bike
Hike the hill

It doesn’t help

REFLECTIONS IN VENICE

A blood orange sun hovers
Behind buildings
Anchored in an icy sea

A boat races through cold air
Away from the ancient city
Past tall villas

Red orange flames
Engulf interiors
Raging window to window
A heart races

Thumbs part
Nostrils flare
Soft liquid flesh yields
A spritz of warm bittersweet
Blood orange