Swimming to Hoboka
Starting from the plaza, a concrete slab inserted into the cliffs
below my parents' house on the Adriatic Sea
I swam west to Hoboka
a secluded beach accessible only by foot or boat
embraced by pine trees and pencil cactus
and situated on the remote carved limestone
peninsula known as Istria
The very same woods where my mother and I
walked in springs past
harvesting wild asparagus
fitted with high rubber boots as protection
from snakes
she, in her tomboy elegance, draping the asparagus over
her forearm
an affirmation of eagle-eyed experience and the ease
with which she located these edible weeds of the forest
With each breast stroke en route to the magical beach
local family histories unfolded
Nagua, the exotic Montenegran widow who welcomes her only
child in summer months when freed from boarding school in Zagreb
My mother’s best friend, innkeeper to German tourists
and keeper of lavender gardens so meticulously landscaped
as to evoke the work of Roger Brown
And the impoverished, mustached wife of a grave digger who at 52
gave birth to the daughter of the tenant who lived communally
with her and her husband
The landscape rises vertically as I approach the beach
the woods thickening now
anticipation of the beach increasing
And while the scents, sounds and sights of all that surrounds it
remain beyond my senses
why with me here
in the water
splashing
splashing strong with the growing muscularity of my neck after
weeks of swimming daily
I splash my way toward the shore
emerging on the beach
a goddess that day
Road Take
Travel plans
without passports or reservations
tickets or expenses
rely on the wandering mind
It’s wisdom
leads us outdoors to study the clouds
absorb the scented grasses
and follow the fledgling
Returning home
we practice the art
of reflection and language
No fixed map
could
tempt
such a traveller
Photographs not taken
There are the photographs not taken
An aged, elegant couple
sitting on a 5th Avenue park bench just north of the Met
matching blue-tinted eyeglasses
serenity in their long couple-hood
a “biopic” of quiet seated before the volta
A widow living in a tenement built by Mussolini
Tending to a crude distillery housed in a Mussolini granted garage
the quiet drip drip drip of slivovica welcoming visitors to sit
in deplaned seats of the now defunct Jugoslavenski Aerotransport
Wearing a stained, but clean apron
this simple, yet noble woman
is unknowingly part of an image
solely recorded by grey matter
A recently slaughtered calf hangs from a hook
on the ceiling of a farmer’s work room
slowly dripping its blood in anticipation of the butchering
tiny raised glasses of herb-infused liqueurs toast the beast
foreshadowing the soon to be prepared tripe, stews and soups
And the pic formed by a talented, but short-sighted gallerist in a town house
gallery standing before walls once rioted with iconoclastic works
Most resting in storage now, unseen, unaccompanied, and increasingly
unremarkable with their exile
Clean white crew neck T-shirt over standard Levi blue jeans
A nod to basic good taste and handsomeness
minus the scarred belly the clothes would later hide
Untaken photographs, but photographs none the less.
Georgia, Over There
I’ve got the keys, you see
the keys
to your apartment
I’m the landlord you see
with the keys
Don’t want the details,
of your life, you see,
'cause I got the keys
It’s not clear when you say Georgia
It’s not the state, but Georgia, like Tbilisi
Now Western Union’s connecting me with you
and Georgia, but it’s not Atlanta
Can’t understand why you didn’t just send a check
through the U. S postal service
'Cause you’re in Georgia, not the state, l come to learn
but the country
Off to Pathmark to cash your rental check
You’ve paid fifty bucks in late fees
Cause you’re in Georgia, not the state
but the country Georgia
not Atlanta
but Tbilisi
Old timer, helping your mother in Georgia,
not Atlanta, but Tbilisi
I’m not in the business of collecting late fees
I’m in the business of collecting rent
You say the money’s there, I know
but you tax me with Georgia, Tbilisi, not Atlanta
Don’t want the late charge, just the rent
for the apartment that I rent you,
just that, no more
Don’t care about the mountain of clothes in your dining room
don’t’ care about your Mom, really I don’t, it’s your Mom, your Tbilisi,
Got my own Tbilisi, here, with kids that don’t have college loans
because that was my gift, my gift, my gift, my twenties, my thirties
my forties,
Don’t care ‘bout your mom in Tbilisi
cannot care about your Mom in Tbilisi
I’m just your landlord, you see
….and thank-you for your note of thanks
For saying “thank you it’s been nice”
It’s nice, your note, but when are you moving out?
Elephant Ride
An elephant ride
is neither bumpy,
nor frightening
The hips, you see,
form figure eights
atop the wide saddle
which fits anybody
as well as somebody
The rider’s legs
clutch the ribs of the beast
as naturally as the thumb and forefinger
come together to signal “okay”
As the animal’s legs
rise and fall in synch with the breathing
of the rider,
the head materializes as conductor
whose devotee, the trunk,
directs the seemingly skeleton-less
grey giant forward in time,
minus baton
It is an out and around
and back again motion
An up and down and
left to right song
Soon I ride with a smile
that seesaws with the rock of my head
Timing my wink for the heavens
with the rising heat of the elephant
as it meets mine
Double Rainbow as Lazy Tongs
I walked across a bridge tonight,
a poet among poets, in line and abreast
east bound toward Brooklyn
with mighty bridge as pathway
say poet, are you lonely, are you hungry
pray poet, are you frightened, are you sorry
play poet, dance at mid-bridge and kiss her
stay poet, calm this gathering
this gay poetry crowd
clasp the hand of humanity for poetry
aboard these lazy tongs
reaching with anchored heart
before the collage called city
tell the story of elders, culture and space
tell it true without restraint
speak of personal or general
river beneath you
loosening or guiding
this is a call to all poets… or follower of poets
to walk the bridge of poetry
then turn
and start again.