These old legs deny stealthy stride
as I travel beneath thinning canopy
on a day of clear blue sky
this trek though slow is loud

For the leaves crunch noisy and harsh
the grounded ones having given up their colors
as their companions drift slowly down
to join them on a slight breeze

Squadrons of fowl fly high and fast
all seeking warmth in southern lands
in tight formations and random flocks
whose honking, quacks and plaintive cries
trumpet the end of Indian summer
and cry out warning of coming snow

The wind is ridiculous in its grand gesture
rolling over the land like a giant serpent
squeezing the cold North air,
the fatted turkey devoured
the marrow of family cracked open
and sucked clean

I prefer simple things. The sound of sunrise
in all these blue hours, the touch of your breath nearest
me, the knowing it took to be with
you,
to be tangled in destiny with melancholy limbs.

The wild geese have gone. They leave no shadows behind.
You are my religion.
I love you longer than I can remember.

There's this castle I once visited
situated under glassage,
I yearn to cross beyond it's drawbridge, once again;

I even long to turn 'round the staircase
should the centurion allow safe passage to a friend;
~
so let me begin again.
There's a castle I once visited,
in fact it's the place my heart remembers as home;

From great distance in dark of night
a jewel shines with its own light
seen from these soaring mountain ridges,
are tall skyscrapers and lacy bridges.

Too far to hear the throbbing noise,
the trucks and trains reduced to toys
flowing through the asphalt arteries
spewing chemicals on urban breeze.

You can"t see the filth and desperation
through miles of night and separation,
and I can"t see the jumbled masses
of middle, upper or lower classes.

I’d love to be a hobo
To tramp the country mile
To be at one with nature
To face life with a smile

The countryside will feed me
With the hedgerow for my bed
The green grass for my pillow
When I need to rest my head

Oh I’d love to be a hobo
Watching seasons passing through
To wake up with the dawning
And the early morning dew

I’d miss my comfy bed I know
And three square meals a day
Fresh clothes every morning
Somewhere clean and warm to stay

Slaughter in here, ethnics
Butchery in there ,politics
Souls from various creeks
For Charon to cross the styx

As cold as ice

Deadly storms won’t cease
Sweeping Tsunamis increase
Forest fires destroy Greece
Why not ask Nature for peace?

As cold as ice

Manmade four-wheeled slayers
On roads merciless killers
Toys for hit and run drivers
Highways innocents’ manglers

As cold as ice

You Sir, have downgraded me

By calling me a peach
But I beseech you
Most folks love to call me
An apple or a rose
As at supersonic speed,
Poetry I compose.

None the less,
As I love to eat a peach,
I shall have a bite
Out of your hand
As it, I do reach

Thanks my friend
We are at your beck and call,
You are a soldier,
A warrior after all…

ICY WATERS

Icy waters
pure and clean
rushing down a mountain stream
sparkling diamonds in sunlight
over rock and stone
furious in their flight
into Ocean’s deep.
swirling into One
never to return from where they come.

around the table
empty seats
some have no feast

there is no cautionary tale
for any bird
sentenced to die
underneath it all

a murder of crows breaks up
the grey,

a hoopoe is not
a legend
only the Simorgh can light the horse's
head and speak with the dead to expunge
their bones

dinner is served promptly at seven
bring your calculated monotony home
leave your insignificance at the door
do not wipe your feet with their blood,

FERRARA,, ITALY 1943-1944

THE GARDEN GATE

we flew and stumbled
whirling down steps of stone
centuries worn
cascading to the garden gate.
sharp right angles into terror
from one terrace to the other
no earth beneath our feet
it seemed…

madness had taken our soul
fear was pounding in our ears
sweeping us into a vortex of nightmare
each step an eternity
to the garden gate
below...

Il giardino dei Finzi-Contini
[The Garden of the Finzi-Contini]