AT A FARMER'S MARKET

Poor frazzled square
of beggars
waves us along
the ancient streets
near the canal
identical twins
of hunger and rage
curse at a farmer's market
by the tables of honey
with the loss of their footing
on a ground of stones
hearing a call out to God
in the midst of a songbirds
with aromas of spices
and different accents
the sounding trumpet and guitar
mired in a lyrical voice soars
out of lamentations
as coins suddenly fall
out of a solitary poet's pocket
of verse and everyone
in the power of my voice
is translated.

A SELFIES WALK

Parting with flowers
they take a selfie's walk
eating a maple cone
full of pistachio
expecting their world
is gathered in faces
day dreaming of mushrooms
salads and a table
full of embraces
and pachisi
but they did not expect
the driver drunk with anger
who just lost his job
would meet them later
at the same funeral parlor.

DUTCH MEMORY

The cry still heard
in an attic
during the Occupation
with the Hals print
missing from the hallways
your imprints
on a heartless barracks
along half-lit faces
you are history's prisoner,
nearby the cold steamship docks
the blind nightclub singer
wanders for bread or milk
now falls in the snow
under the canal.

SUDDENLY MARLENE

Suddenly Marlene Dietrich
came on the T.V.
and with her the memory
of those pre-war years
returns with re-runs
of sound out voices
and thoughts of the past
if only that Hitler
was not conceived
in imagination
becoming a reality show
if only Stalin did not have
more toes than a wolf
drawing us into the Gulag
and forests protected us
at grandmother's house
from the rape of a generation.

NOSTALGIA

At a first fallen acorn

of the last dog day moment

my eyes and ears open

we cannot turn our back

to the uninhabited pastimes

as soccer and bocce yellow lines

are still bobbling along the walk

near the last crocus

while other handsome sports
trying to forget their lessons

are marathon preparing

a year ahead near river beds

of the Fenway Victory gardens

while a day dreamed soul longs 

to devour Magritte's Apple
at the museum.

UNDERGROUND POET

You first read in the subway
the open sea still inside you
with its salty brine
in a subterranean approach
at the primary abyss
of a mike's unexpected voices
by the bandstand and gazebo
outside is a Boston Common
fountain by a myriad of tulips
and radiant lilacs
here in leather gloves
opening unruffled pages
my voice communicates
through long suffering history
to an attentive crowd
by revolutionary graves
presented at a pallid wall
of city graffiti at your back
under lantern lights
a skittish beer
spins on my tongue
in a nostalgic adolescence
my fans and unknown friends
arrive by Park Street church
under the Mayflower pulpit
daily disguises are removed
under the motioning wind
from Winter Street
an underground poet
wanders off alone
still hearing street cars
in the subway homeland
being driven by memory
in a language inside ourselves
covered by an hour of words
to capture a whistling myth
of metamorphosis.

SERVING

Serving at tennis
with rapid eyes
with tact and tactics
outside St. Dennis
on the court
shadows clock
hours playing on time
in hurried dusty effacement
along the tall grass
along breezing pavement
memories awake to sleep
in the beclouded noon
you rebound in practice
from shadows passing
over the sessions
onto love.