The Noblest: An Anthology of Prose and Poetry

By George R. Hopkins

It is an honor to have been asked to write an introduction to The Noblest, which is a collection of some of the work of a small group of people from different walks of life who came together in a writing workshop I gave at the John Noble Maritime Museum a few years ago. Together, we shared our writings, we listened to each other, and we grew into a family of friends. As you read their thoughts, their ideas, their stories, you will come to glimpse them as I have been privileged to do.
Their poems, stories, and memoirs speak for themselves. They have opened their hearts and souls in their writings. Initially, I did not want to detract from their accomplishments with my own writings, but they are a persistent group and they prevailed. Tread softly as you read our works and enter into our lives. We hope our writing speaks to you and that you find a friend or two in these pages and that the words conjure memories, stimulate imagination, take you to special places, and give you pause to think.

May I start you on your journey with a poem of my own.

The letters leak from pens and pencils
Like twisted linguine from aged grinders
Into word salads that whisper feelings
Sometimes buried, sometimes throbbing,
Sometimes happy, sometimes sobbing.

Pictures form of people
Living quiet lives in troubled times
Laughing, crying, sighing,
Dreaming, loving, praying,
Probing, wondering, remembering.

They are the seasons of the years,
The colors of the rainbow.
Their images cling and clang,
Stir and penetrate, invigorate and celebrate.

They sing like the sunrise
That while much may be taken
Much abides and flourishes.

Read our words and listen to our hearts
With reverence, kindness, gratefulness and awe
And learn once more we are not alone
And all of us including you - still have much so much more to give.

Thank you,
George R. Hopkins

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 3, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465323118

George R. Hopkins

Before becoming a full-time writer, George Hopkins was a sergeant in the United States Marine Corps and an English chairperson of an NYC High School. He has taught writing in workshops, colleges, and in Puerto Rico and twice was chosen by NY Association of Teachers as Teacher of the Year. NY1 honored him as a New Yorker of the Week for his work with senior writers, and .he has received two CTV NOVA Awards for community service. Each of his three previous mystery-suspense novels received awards, and the most recent, Letters from the Dead, was one of six finalists in the 2013 International Readers’ Favorite Book Awards and won second prize in the Reader Views Book Contest in mystery-suspense-thriller.

Book preview

This work is a compilation of the writings of seven people from various walks of life who met in a writing workshop and decided to share their writings with others. The writings contained here are all the original work of the writers.

Copyright © 2009 by  Albert Balossi, Carolyn Clark, Ray S. Coco, John Foxell, George R. Hopkins Evelyn Palomba, and Jean Roland.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or

mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without

permission in writing from the writers themselves, except by a reviewer, who may

quote brief passages in a review.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

Cover art work courtesy of Toni Ann Palomba.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Preface or Introduction

Book I

Albert Balossi

Book II

Carolyn Clark

Book III

Ray S. Coco

Book IV

John Foxell

Book V

George R. Hopkins

Book VI

Evelyn Palomba

Book VII

Jean Lucier Roland

To the loves of our lives

Preface or Introduction

It is an honor to have been asked to write an introduction to this book. This is a collection of some of the work of a small group of people from different walks of life who came together in a writing workshop I gave at the Noble Maritime Collection a few years ago. Together, we shared our writings, we listened to each other, and we grew into a family of friends. As you read their thoughts, their ideas, their stories, you will come to glimpse them as I have been privileged to do.

Their poems, stories, and memoirs speak for themselves. They have opened their hearts and souls in their writings. Initially, I did not want to detract from their accomplishments with my own writings, but they are a persistent group and they prevailed. Tread softly as you read our works and enter into our lives. We hope our writing speaks to you and that you find a friend or two in these pages and that the words conjure memories, stimulate imagination, take you to special places, and give you pause to think.

May I start you on your journey with a poem of my own.

The letters leak from pens and pencils

Like twisted linguine from aged grinders

Into word salads that whisper feelings—

Sometimes buried, sometimes throbbing,

Sometimes happy, sometimes sobbing.

Pictures form of people

Living quiet lives in troubled times—

Laughing, crying, sighing,

Dreaming, loving, praying,

Probing, wondering, remembering.

They are the seasons of the years,

The colors of the rainbow.

Their images cling and clang,

Stir and penetrate, invigorate and celebrate.

They sing like the sunrise

That while much may be taken

Much abides and flourishes.

Read our words and listen to our hearts

With reverence, kindness, gratefulness and awe

And learn once more—we are not alone

And all of us—including you—still have much—so much more to give.

Thank you,

George R. Hopkins

Book I

Albert Balossi

I am the kind of a guy, one might say, whose life could be summed up by the words a day late and a dollar short.

I was born in New York City’s Greenwich Village in the late 1920s but was too young to know about or able to enjoy the hedonistic pleasures of the Flapper era. I grew up in semi rural Staten Island during the entire period of the Great Depression, not knowing that we were poor. As a matter of fact we often ate chunks re-hydrated bread, cut from really stale loaves as long and as hard as baseball bats. Sprinkled with oil and vinegar they were such a tasty treat I thought it was dessert.

Yet I remember enjoying the riches of the bucolic woodlands that bordered our hillside home. Unencumbered by boundaries such as cramped living quarters and harassing street traffic that city dwellers had to deal with I was able to roam freely through wooded areas and commune with nature.

Because of the poor timing of my birth, I missed out on the great opportunity to fight in World War II, also known as the Big War. But just as the war ended I became of age and did a hitch in the U S Army Signal Corps. I served in the Philippines and the island of Guam in an area surrounded by tropical jungle. Hell, the entire island was mostly jungle. There was no action, no fighting, no bullets nor bombs to contend with. It was just boring duty.

When I finished my hitch, I took my discharge papers, good conduct medal and my ruptured duck lapel pin and went to work in the telecommunication industry. During the 38 year period I worked for the same company, I married and raised four children. At the end of this period, I was kicked out of a job and dumped into the Golden years of early retirement. Of course without the golden parachute. Too young to feel retired and too old to be hired, I wandered the lonely desert of the retirement world without a compass.

Unskilled at the manly pursuit of the game of golf and with no passion or desire to play the ponies, nor indulge myself as many seniors may at casino gambling to idle the time away, I finally stumbled on to a very talented writing group. I was lucky to hook up with them and they helped me become a wannabe writer of poetry and prose, of sorts.

A HOT CUP OF TEA

A hot cup of tea may be viewed,

by a coffee drinking slob,

as that silly brew that’s sipped,

by a dainty, effete snob.

But brawny, hearty mariners,

that sail far on the briny sea,

may crave a daily mug of rum,

yet relish a hot cup of tea.

A ROSE

A blushing rose of summer,

wine hued velvet petals,

swathed in a silver dew,

not unlike the tears

that fell from the eyes of Venus.

Alluring, glowing beauty,

that transcends the ages.

Sweet, sensual fragrance,

as though Dionysus imbued,

flows softly, gently,

from well within its core.

A symbol of

Aphrodite’s promise,

expressing love, desire,

and hope to be fulfilled.

Be though, wary . . .

for its thorns,

may prick a suitor’s heart.

A WOODLAND REMEMBERED

A rutted, old, and unpaved road,

Descended through an untamed wood,

This once wide lane was narrowed some,

As brush and weeds claimed what they could.

Now down this lonely road I trod,

From hilltop toward the pond below,

And past some brambles to one side,

I saw the place where berries grow.

White birches filled the woods beyond,

Their trident leaves gleamed in the Sun,

While oak trees towering in their midst,

Were hosting squirrels just having fun.

Wild cherry trees I came upon,

Their pea size fruit had blackish hue,

I paused a bit to sample some,

They tasted tart, yet sweetish too.

Saw ferns, with long serrated blades,

That gently swayed with every breeze,

They seemed like weapons of a troop,

Assigned to guard the woodland trees.

Now near road’s end, tall punk topped reeds,

With fronds and wispy tails appeared,

That, upward from the wetland rose.

So, with few steps, the pond I neared.

Saw waters topped with lily pads,

Where `neath them swam the pollywogs,

While in the air the mayflies danced,

And passing flies were meals for frogs.

ALL I CAN SEE

All I can see when I recall the scene

is her eyes, filled with over-flowing tears.

It happened on a wind swept, rainy night.

They’d come at two A.M. and rang the bell.

Two rain soaked cops looked solemn as they spoke

and we were greatly stunned beyond belief

while soon within us both our hearts had cried

when they told us our eldest son had died.

ANGRY BELLS

Near Zadar’s ancient Roman ruins,

A belfry rose above quite high.

Its bells clanged harsh with angry tunes,

We stood in awe—and wondered why.

AUTUMN WIND

As autumn grandeur melts away,

fair days of fall begin to wane.

Whipping autumn winds,

propel the darkened,

scudding clouds,

across the graying skies.

Wind swept trees,

surrender bright hued leaves,

of yellow, rust and red,

that swirl in blizzard like cascade,

and plummet to the earth.

They whirl and dance,

in ballet pirouettes,

then skitter here or there,

seeking refuge,

among their very ilk,

to find their final place of rest.

BARCELONA DREAMERS

Barcelona, Catalonia’s city by the sea,

a land of dreams and dreamers.

A city where Columbus stands,

perched atop his lofty pillared mount,

with finger pointing to the sea—

and seas beyond—while dreaming,

of new and distant lands he’d found;

and of a world . . . no longer Flat.

Where, Gaudi’s dream meanders on,

a century now and well beyond,

as builders strove and still strive on,

to finish Gaudi’s grand design,

La Sagrada Família Church,

with filigreed tall towers,

that probe the sky for Heaven’s gates.

Where old cathedral chapel crypts,

are bathed in gilded splendors,

their gold encrusted artifacts,

gifts, from wealthy dreaming spenders,

seeking passage into Heaven.

Here athletes marched, with pomp and pride,

at summer games of `92,

and dreamed of medals and of fame.

While some took home Olympic gold,

others dreamed the dream of dreams,

that of—"Oh—what might have been."

Where invaders came, and came again,

and seized this city by the sea.

The vanquished bore the victors’ yokes

with stifled brooding rage,

and cursed the boots,

that trampled on their heritage and name.

For centuries they dreamed their dream,

to once again redeem their due.

Though faded through the mists of time,

this dream for some—still lingers on.

BITTER MOON

Full moon with bitter icy glow

your cold and trenchant light

with calculated penetrating glare

exposes warriors in the night

and readily abets the stealthy foe

on the killing fields of war.

Without remorse nor care

you flush out innocents,

now forced to flee and face

their adversaries’ fusillades

to a gleeful enemy’s delight

while your cold, luminescent

glow shines blissfully

upon the blood soaked fields

of night.

BLAME

Blame the hammer not its wielder

When the nail is crushed and bent

Blame the bobbin not the sewer

If the seams are loose or rent

Blame the blade and not the cutter

Should your rugs be cut askew

Blame the needle not the doctor

If your arm is black and blue

Blame the pot and not the pourer

Should coffee overflow the cup

Blame the pencil not the writer

If the numbers don’t add up

And when you don’t know what to do . . .

Blame something, anything but you.

BLUE LIGHT

Blue light beams rose into the night

from footprints where twin towers once stood

and pierced the sky towards Heaven’s gates

to where the angels ushered souls

of innocents who’d burned and died

that dreadful day of infamy

when planes, like terror missiles struck,

from out of blue light tinted skies.

BUTTERFLY

On gossamer wings

You silently fly

To visit the flowers

My sweet butterfly

You flutter about

And dance in your flight

To see you at play

Makes life a delight

Colors from rainbows

Have painted your wings

You’re one of nature’s

Most beautiful things

When summertime ends

I know I shall cry

For then you’ll be gone

My sweet butterfly.

CROSSROADS

Crossroads, in life

are tough to confront.

What path shall we chose

is the question to ask.

Pick one way you’ll win

the other you’ll lose.

Where will it lead?

No one ever can say.

To happiness? Maybe;

or perhaps down some sad way.

Decisions when taken

must move us ahead

or we’ll wind up in limbo

neither living nor dead.

DAYDREAMS

Our sleep is but a brief respite,

As cares of day are stilled by night,

But come the morn, as sure it will,

Reality, our minds does fill.

The light of day confirms our fear.

Our cares and woes won’t disappear.

To help relieve our troubled mind,

A waking cure we seek to find.

So now and then, in our own way,

We daydream in the course of day,

For daydreams may, with magic twirl,

Uplift us from, our troubled world.

ESCAPE ROUTE

The gray-black metal stairway,

and its skeletal balconies,

cling to the weathered, brick facade

of an old tenement that rises,

well above the seamy street.

In this ghetto neighborhood,

economic opportunity does not exist,

but crime is rife.

Here, poverty of heart and soul prevails.

Here, shooting hoops or shooting drugs,

in parks and playgrounds, have become,

a way of life . . . or way to death.

A young boy of color, with book in hand,

sits, on long flat narrow iron slats,

staring wistfully into distant space,

beyond the bars that form a cage.

They seem to lock him, into this ghetto.

He dares to daydream of escape.

Perhaps his books will hold the key.

MY BROTHER WAS AN ONLY CHILD

My brother was an only child, I think,

He came upon the scene when I was three

A blondish, blue eyed cherub cute and pink

My parents loved him more than they did me.

He got the most attention when he whined

Mom picked him up and held him on her knee

She nurtured him while I stood near and pined

My parents loved him more than they did me.

They sent me into exile for a while

I felt much better knowing I was free

My foster parents made me feel worthwhile

For now the only child they had was me.

FAMILY

Family, that precious bond of life,

A chain begun by man and wife,

Endowed by God with great respect,

Each generation bound to next.

Oft’, families join with loving care,

When there are special times to share,

A wedding day, a child new born,

Or . . . should there be a loss to mourn.

Sweet echoes haunt them from the past,

Fond memories that will ever last,

Reminders of more distant days,

That tell of other times and ways.

Linked well beyond this time and place,

To those long gone, to each new face,

A family’s love and essence lies,

Entwined within ‘familial ties’.

FOUR AM

Is it the witching hour for poets,

or the dark hour of the damned,

as sleep has lost its somnolent hold,

and the mind is crammed and jammed.

Inspiration comes intruding,

in the darkest time of night,

while lines of rhymes start spewing,

so it’s time to turn on the light.

Got to write those words and phrases,

or they’ll be lost forever more,

have to find my pen and paper,

oh damn, the pen fell on the floor.

I jot the words and rhyming lines,

and I go quickly back to bed,

but new verses come to haunt me,

and keep dancing in my head.

FLOWERS

View the flower, in its bower,

Radiant and glowing.

Nature’s treasure, full of pleasure,

In full bloom or growing.

With glis’ning hue, refreshed by dew,

Begins its start of day.

With dawn now come, it greets the Sun,

And wants its warming ray.

With petals soft, head held aloft,

It dances in the breeze.

Magic power, has the flower,

To so enchant the bees.

Down in the dell, it weaves its spell,

With all sweet gentleness.

And in the fields its nectar yields,

To gain the bee’s caress.

Some painted bright, some dark, or light,

With hues from soft to bold,

Enjoy their scent, it’s time well spent,

`Tis fragrance for the soul.

So take the time to just unwind,

Stop, and smell the flowers,

For nature’s pride, may well provide,

Life’s most pleasant hours.

HIDDEN HARBOR

There’s a tiny hidden harbor,

on the Adriatic coast,

set deep within an old Fjord.

Steep slopes hug an old walled city,

nestled at the seaport shore below.

Beyond the buttressed city gate,

clusters, of red tiled roofed, row houses,

pack the narrow alleyways,

that wend and wind their way,

to form a maze within the city walls.

A white, twin towered ancient church,

dominates the wide piazza square.

Within the old cathedral porticos,

hosts of votive candles flicker

in the dimly lighted nave.

Pews and marbled floors have well survived,

centuries of faithfully bending knees,

and the shuffling feet of time.

Yet, the spirits of departed souls,

seem to still linger,

in the flickering shadows,

of this ancient Holy place.

MOOD

The lilt within her voice,

does not betray,

her thorny path of choice,

of come what may.

Married thrice, with consequences sad,

yet never fell into the well of discontent,

though average mortals might well had,

she moved through life without lament.

I REMEMBER . . .

I remember well the night,

I flew across the sea,

To visit family

Who for a while I had not seen.

I remember special things . . .

A warm and joyful welcome

At a crowded airport gate,

A lengthy, speedy auto trip,

Through country side I’d never seen.

Arriving at a hillside farm

Where I would stay with family,

I remember three huge dogs

That soon became my friends,

And greeted me with wagging tails

Each morn, when I arose from bed,

I remember hearty meals

Served with hospitality and love.

I remember trips to cities,

Speeding on the motorways

Through tunneled mountainsides

And soon arrived in Genova

With streets, well clogged with cars,

And homes, on terraced hillside slopes,

In hues of muted pastel shades.

I saw Florence on the Tuscan plains,

A city with a famous Church and Dome

Not far from Ponte Vecchio bridge.

I remember Pisa’s leaning tower

Next to its great white marble church,

Marble from Carrara’s quarry,

Where Michelangelo found his David.

I remember coffee bars

With Cappuccinos and sweet treats.

But best of all I’ll remember,

My family’s love and caring ways,

And generosity of heart.

JEREMY STONE

Jeremy Stone was a worker

At a stone quarry in the hills,

And lived in the town of Stone Ville,

Just a stone’s throw away from work.

Jeremy Stone went to work drunk

Slipped from the escarpment of stone

Struck his head on a stone outcrop

And fell to stone rubble below.

Stone workers who rushed to his aid

Found him lying there stone cold dead.

His stone cutter friends would now carve,

A stone, to place over his head.

LIFE IS LIKE A RIVER

From conception to inception,

as the mountain snows gestate,

waiting, waiting, for the breath of springtime,

to induce the pangs of birth;

waiting, for the dripping droplets,

to form pools, that become rills.

From flowing tiny trickles,

a gurgling, babbling brook is born.

Nurtured by its mother earth,

gains in strength . . . and, too, its will.

Learns lessons, like a toddler,

bumbling, stumbling, straggling onward,

in a quest to find its way.

Pure and innocent, it grows,

to the volume of a stream.

Swifter now, it travels,

hurtling past impedimenta,

settling safely in a peaceful, placid lake,

where calm, cold waters ebb and flow.

Tranquility at last . . . it seems.

But nature’s unforgiving whims,

bring floods from springtime thaw,

that overflow the lakeside banks,

and with ferocious force, they spill,

cascading to the valley below,

and form a raging river.

As upland river rapids splay,

its pure aquatic spray,

the river races on with frantic fury,

gouging its way on toward the sea.

In time, its wholesomeness,

corrupts in compromise,

as wily whipping eddies, or,

coursing currents tug and sway its path,

to roiling, toiling waters,

where thick turbidness obscures,

the foul and fetid traps,

that lie ahead . . . in wait.

LOVE AND ROSES

Love is like a red, red rose

as sweet, as its enchanting scent

or painful as the thorns that prick the heart.

Yet love cannot be measured by

the pain or joy that one may sense

but by enduring qualities

both earnest and intense.

So let there be no sham in love

or lovers may well cry a sad lament

knowing that their hearts and souls

have suffered from some cruel intent

when love has been a big pretense.

LOVE IS—OR IS NOT

Love is unconditional,

it knows no limits nor boundaries.

It cannot be reconfigured

to suit terms of reality.

Love is beautiful and pure,

the essence of one’s being.

Either love exists . . . or it does not;

like truth, there is no middle ground.

Love is turmoil in the soul

that cannot be suffused or quelled

by rationalization or compromise;

it must be requited in kind.

Love is torment of the mind

and tremulousness of the heart

its exquisite pain will not subside

without equal reciprocation.

Love, like the sweetest summer rose,

will neither flourish nor survive,

but wither and die, less nurtured

with earnest tenderness.

MEMORIES

So much depends upon

our memories . . .

Waves of thoughts,

meander through our minds

recalling, frenetic,

long forgotten times.

Winter sleds,

slithering down the slopes,

as sounds of squealing children

filled our ears.

The mystery of youth,

was playing itself out,

beneath the bright blue skies.

NIGHT FALL

As the sun slowly slipped

below the far horizon

darkness rushed

to fill the fading light.

A golden sliver

of a lambent,

crescent moon,

grew bright

and hung . . .

cradled,

in the jet black sky.

ODE TO AN OLD WOODEN SPOON

From whence it came, just can’t be said,

perhaps from one generation onto next.

Long and scooped out at one end,

its slender handle extended to the other.

Its wood, amply seasoned by its years of use,

was well infused, by essence of its handlers too.

There was Mom, who with this very spoon,

stirred and scraped, tossed and mixed,

and heaped our plates as she lovingly

served the food that nourished us.

It stirred the bubbling, thick pea soup,

as it spouted and puffed in its cook pot;

Or, the dried white beans, or lentils,

as they melted into softened tenderness.

It helped build the hearty minestrone,

an amalgam of sweet flavored vegetables.

It tugged at the frying onions, peppers,

and potatoes, sticking in their pan.

It turned the meatballs or sausages,

simmering in the Sunday pasta sauce.

It helped sauté the mushroom slices,

or escarole in the hot oil and garlic mix.

It churned the slow cooking stews of meat,

and chunky vegetables in savory sauce.

It untangled the cooking pasta

in the boiling, roiling water of the pot.

Endlessly, it stirred the polenta as it huffed

and puffed, slowly thickening in its bronze pot.

There was mixing of cake batter and icing,

and the joy of children licking the spoon.

Aside from food, the spoon found other uses too.

Mom wagged it menacingly at her misbehaving

brood, an idle threat that made its point.

A tot, with paper soldier hat, shouldered

and pointed it as his make-believe weapon.

The banging of pots to usher in the New Year.

Now, as we grip its wooden handle, held by those

that came before, we sense the essence

of their memories that caress our very souls.

OLD TENEMENTS

Old tenements, built long ago,

Of cheap clay bricks and drab concrete,

All huddled close, row after row,

With dingy flats stacked o’er the street.

Those seamy streets, where urchins played,

And ice-men lugged their ice with tongs,

Where hawking vendors plied their trade,

And old hand organs ground out songs.

Bleak dwellings for the working poor,

Those walk-ups, with their endless stairs,

That led the hapless to their door,

Fatigued, forlorn, by work-day cares.

The kitchen—where their bread was shared,

Their space for warmth, wash clothes and bathe,

A room where day’s travails were aired,

And women toiled at homework trade.

The bedroom—with its trundle bed,

Where babes were born with midwife aid,

Their place to rest a weary head,

And bouts of illness were assuaged.

The parlor where they waked their dead,

A common outhouse in the yard,

The chamber pot hid `neath their bed,

Here daily life . . . was cruel and hard.

OLIVE TREES

On steep, terraced hillside slopes,

that overlook,

the Autostrada’s high speed lanes,

groves—of olive trees abound.

Trees—centuries old,

shaped like goblets

of the ancient Gods,

gnarled and twisted,

by the ravages of time,

seem as old . . .

as time itself.

Pregnant with their

summer fruit,

of multicolored hues,

they bask—

in the warm Ligurian sun,

and patiently await,

the harvest days of fall.

Bright orange colored nets,

carpet every inch below the trees.

No olive shall escape

these seizing snares,

when the farmer’s beating cane,

drives them,

raining to the ground.

Tipped, into coarse old Hessian sacks,

they’re ready for the pressing mill.

ONE APRIL MORN

`Neath azure skies, one April morn,

began the journey to the grave.

Up granite steps the coffin borne,

was placed within the church’s nave.

Sad mourners filed into the pews.

As Mass was sung and incense burned,

the preacher uttered joyous news;

"Eternal life . . . when Christ returns."

The long cortege soon found its way,

upon the field of silent dreams.

Amid the headstones lay fresh clay,

a yawning maw, was cloaked with beams.

With flag draped coffin o’er the pit,

the Chaplain prayed, May thee be blessed,

whom—to this grave, we now commit,

in memory fields, for final rest."

With soulful sounds of last tattoo,

the honor guard gave its salute,

the furled flag gently handed to,

a grieving mom, as fond tribute.

PRISONER OF LOVE

Stealthily, quietly, shrouded,

like a Trojan horse

is its filament of guise,

love sneaks in, uninvited,

and overwhelms the heart.

The joy and pain it brings,

subsumes the mind and soul;

the very being of one’s life.

Enslaved by tender bonds

that tormentingly tug, yet bind.

There can be no escape.

Nor should there be,

when love is reciprocated,

by the holder of its bonds.

THE PUSH CARTS

The push carts of old Bleecker Street,

Were like some two wheeled tiny sloops,

That sailed the cobbled streets to meet

With other ships in friendly groups.

From storage shed or warehouse stall,

Down old side street or alley way,

All headed for their port of call,

Bleecker Street—for their daily stay.

They started out at crack of dawn,

When morning air was fresh and thin,

And trundled in the quiet morn,

Before rank sounds of workday din.

Their makeshift canvas sails lay furled,

Till each edged to its curbside bay,

Those canvas tops were then unfurled,

To shade their cargoes on display.

All push carts snug, set side by side,

Along the curb all in a row,

Their farm fresh produce stacked with pride,

All sparkling from the sunlight’s glow.

The vendors hawked their farm grown fare,

From sunrise till the sun’s last ray,

They worked until their carts were bare,

Or darkness fell, to end their day.

QUEEN OF THE SEA

Venice rises mystically,

in a place above the waves,

as though conceived by Neptune,

and the labor of his slaves.

A city where slim gondolas,

with lovers held in sway,

glide gracefully, `neath bridges,

spanning each winding waterway.

Stately, posh old palaces

line Grand Canal and bay,

their mirrored, rippling images,

shimmer on, along the way.

A sea of blue-gray pigeons,

flood spacious Saint Marc’s Square,

this living, royal carpet,

faces Church and Doge’s Palace lair;

so closely joined, by door and gate,

this regal looking pair,

may well suggest a marriage,

between the Church and State.

Venice, once mistress of the seas,

no longer is what it had been,

yet the echoes of Ulysses,

still whisper in the wind.

ROASTED CHESTNUTS

Chestnuts roasted hot and sweet,

by a vendor on the street.

They’ve a skin that’s colored brown,

and a smooth well-rounded crown.

Slit are skins to vent the heat,

as the oven roasts their meat.

Little nuggets plump and hard,

out of oven, scorched and charred.

Hot to handle, tough to peel,

surely, it’s a small ordeal.

But you’ll feel a bit of pride,

when you’ve freed the meat inside.

As you peel this tasty treat . . .

don’t discard . . . shells in the street.

SARZANA

I woke to gloom this morning

Saw fog and clouds roll overhead

Thought of going to Sarzana

As I rose up from my bed

The vale below was lost in fog

The mountains disappeared

The rain was pelting to the ground

As our departure time now neared

We ventured to the highway

In her small Peugeot

The road ahead was straight and clear

To where we had to go

Sarzana was a rain soaked town

And traffic clogged the streets

We found the supermarket mall

Where we shopped for food and treats

Feeling the coldness of the day

We sought shelter off the street

Then soon we found a small café

And had cappuccino and a sweet.

SIGNS OF CHANGE

Autumn’s on the wane,

All the trees are bare,

Frost is on the pane,

Winter’s in the air.

SLEEP

Come gentle sleep,

With misty cloak,

Shield this ever tortured mind.

Come, still the pain,

Within my soul,

Wherein, torment, you will find.

So bittersweet,

Was life for me,

Filled both with pain and gladness.

Those days of joy,

Once known to me,

Are now replaced by sadness.

Thus linger not,

Sweet gentle sleep,

Let me no longer suffer.

Bring quickly forth,

That silent peace,

You always have to offer.

SUMMER MORN

There’s quietude at dawning

of a summer morn.

The air, fresh and sweet,

scrubbed by blackness of the night,

offers cool and gentle breezes

to calmly rouse us

from our tortured, sweaty sleep.

Chirping, chattering birds

intrude upon the hush of the new day

as they scavenge for morning meals

for selves and nestlings in the trees.

We mortals too, must rise

and meet the labors of the day

to earn our daily bread

for those we love.

But soon, the coolness

and the quietude are gone,

for as the Sun ascends its lengthy arc,

its searing heat foretells another

hot and steamy day and too,

a restless sultry night.

TEMPTING TID-BITS

Something sweet was on a tray

a very tempting sweet display

but when I took a second glance

I saw the chocolate covered ants;

and yet temptation would prevail

for these chocolates were on sale.

I thought I’d better buy a bunch

and have something sweet for lunch.

I closed my eyes and took a bite

and quickly overcame the fright

for each bite was smooth and sweet

while though it was a pleasant treat

I felt the ants were on a roll

and I was running for the bowl.

THE CAREGIVER

With helpful healing hands

and humble heart

you unselfishly and tirelessly

while overcome by exhaustion

give of yourself

to one so much in need.

Your empathetic and sympathetic

caring provides holistic healing

to a vulnerable human soul.

You are a true caregiver.

Your reward will be in Heaven.

THE CLOCK

An exacting monitor

of our time and life

runs with calculated speed

marking each moment,

as it passes from—what was—

and into what might be.

As it ticks away precious time,

live each moment to the full;

avoid the sorrow of its misspent loss

for it can never be retrieved . . .

nor ever be relived.

THE GRAVE

What is the secret of the grave?

All who enter the netherworld

be they rich, poor, powerful, or weak,

scholarly, uneducated, celebrity, or unknown,

warrior, pacifist, criminal, or righteous,

all must be abiding in harmony as equals

beneath the sod and treading feet

for we have heard no murmur of complaint

from those of disparate means or worldly status

assembled and commingled in a common place

thus we must assume all is well in the after life.

But to learn the true secret of the grave

we must wait until we arrive there ourselves.

THE INSCRUTABLE MOTH

Observe the tiny moth,

Quickly moving back and forth.

It pursues with great desire,

Its attraction for the fire.

Why it plays this risky game,

Dancing closely to the flame,

Is a secret it well hides,

And to no one `ere confides.

Is the heat the only feature,

To enchant this little creature,

Or perhaps it sees a vision,

Showing life’s secret mission?

What mystery does it know,

As it rounds the warming glow?

Is it heaven, is it hell?

What it sees, it just won’t tell.

THE LOST SOULS

The elevator finds the floor

A nurse’s key unlocks the door.

When down the hall they walk, they see,

Another lock, another key.

They’ve come to where the lost souls dwell.

The locked ward is, their private hell.

A place where tortured minds reside,

With no escape, nor place to hide.

A few wait near the entrance way.

Perhaps a visitor today?

They hope a loved one might come by,

But hopes soon dim, and slowly die . . .

Pajama clad, some pace the floor,

Move up and down the corridor.

Some watch TV with vacant stares,

And try to wile away their cares.

Defiant words with angry tone,

Belch forth from those who stand alone,

Retorts aimed toward that voice each hears,

An inner demon, spewing jeers.

Now comes a call. They form a line,

For now it’s medication time.

All take their pills; some one, some more,

And soon resume to pace the floor.

For most, their minds gain brief respite,

From inner voices they can’t fight.

But, as the doping doses fade,

Those mental demons re-invade.

The locked ward is a private hell,

For it is where the lost souls dwell.

Of demons they will ne’er be free,

Their minds are locked . . . and there’s no key.

THE OLD FARM OF HEDGEROW LANE

There’s an old farm, on Hedgerow Lane,

whose better days are just a memory.

The arching apple trees,

that offered summer shade are gone,

and too, their fruit that filled,

those sweet delicious pies.

There’ll be no tilling of the soil,

come spring.

No rows of plants to hoe and weed,

through sticky summer months.

There’ll be no need for bracing poles,

to cradle crops that need support.

Nor fencing—to keep wild rabbits

from nocturnal feasts.

The asparagus patch,

whose green and tender shoots,

augured signs of spring,

lingers in a torpid state,

and will never sprout again.

The farm has fallen fallow now.

Meadow grass has filled its space.

The farmer’s tools are laid to rest,

for all the springtimes, yet to come.

THE