January 31, 2016


Roaming the aisles of TJ Maxx

I’m wondering did she say meet her at Saks?
Roaming the aisles of TJ Maxx

I can’t spot her at all in the dresses or slacks
Roaming the aisles of TJ Maxx

She would look good in the reds, blues and blacks
Roaming the aisles of TJ Maxx

She gets so mad I don’t listen, then she attacks
Roaming the aisles of TJ Maxx

She would never go camping, rain or shine, in plastic macs
Roaming the aisles of TJ Maxx

It’s been a while since she said to wait here, or was it Saks?

-- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved.

January 24, 2015

Fingernails ... scratch ... the ... paper

Fingernails scratch the paper,
They point at a blank page.
A voice says, "Write something!"
So, he writes: "Fingernails
scratch the paper,
They point to a blank page."


-- Copyright © 1974, 2010-2015 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Photos and content may not be used for commercial purposes without written permission.
First published in DAYS YOU KNEW ME.
Written overlooking the baseball fields in Brookdale Park, Montclair/Bloomfield, N.J.

November 8, 2013


Where have you gone?
What is the meaning
of your fruitlessness?
Why did you turn to absurdity?
There are no answers,
only questions
No crimes in love
No deaths in dying
No explanation clarifies
your profundity
So just why do you bother
And where do you go?

-- Copyright © 2013 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved.

November 7, 2013


For 'Boots'

It takes courage to be bright when your friend's in a casket
And you lose your fame to claim
When all your clothes are in a broken basket
And you're left the one they blame

It takes courage to stay to fight the dark night
And your fingers throb with pain
When everyone has died in sight
And you doubt whether you are sane

It takes courage to start another day
And travel the long hard road
When the path leads you far away
And your back can't carry the load

It takes courage to walk up to strange people
And speak to them and say your name
When you've left your friend beneath the steeple
And they say you're the one to blame

It doesn't take courage to write a poem
Or scribble the words in ink
When you've got a roof, and a home
And everything for life is in the pink

-- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved.

July 22, 2012


They are meant to be longed for
A shining light ahead,
a tall tale with no truth
A simple wish for things that were

They are meant to spark feelings
Simmer emotions, and sympathies,
or stored in a box
Inside a lonely mind

Left to rattle precariously
In less than copacetic
syncopation or sickie
Tiki tave sound alikes

-- Copyright © 2010-2012 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved.

February 8, 2012

Bug Juice

Cowboys, Indians, horses, sailors, blue marines
and soldiers from almost every war
packed my toy box tins and cardboard boxes
in the bedroom I shared and living room too.
Courtesy IPFinance blog

On the open Singer was the ranch, high in the mountain
where I’d set up all the horses and block them in,
using rows of spools of Mom’s colorful thread.
I’d post a lookout or two at the top of the round disk spinner
and another lookout atop the spout where the needle jigged
its thread through the hole to the hidden spool.

My favorite cowboys sat nearby in a circle telling tales
around a fire by the chuck wagon and oh, so slowly,
I brought on either the Indians or rustlers
over the drawer handles to sneak up and swipe stallions.

A snapped twig would set the stage for the big fight,
a free-for-all where the rustlers would fall,
my favorite cowboys winged
and afterward, as the last of the bad guys ran off
or were stacked in a pile of dead-for-now,
my guys, the heroes, returned to the campfire
for black coffee, hard tack and tall tales.

When I first went camping
with the Boy Scouts
out in the far reaches
of Wildcat Lake in Blairstown
where mosquitos drowned in our drinks,
I half expected bad guys of some sort
to rush down from the mountain top
and we’d use our kerchiefs
and scout knives to fend them off
and save our bug juice.

- By Anthony Buccino
First published in Poetry Quarterly Winter 2010
Included in AMERICAN BOY: Pushing Sixty
This version varies from earlier editions
On Kindle
Copyright © 2010, 2012 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved.

November 11, 2011


Where does she get those names
the names she reads every Sunday
when we are in church
you know, right after we pray for the sick
and we pray for those church members who have died
and for those in the room having tough times
and for the families we know
and their soldiers off at war.

Where does he get those names
the names of the week’s fallen
on two fronts of the war
their ages from the teens to fifties or so
and those names, some so hard to pronounce
where does she get those names
and when will the list stop?

-- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved.
Honor the Fallen
Faces of the Fallen

November 2, 2011

Sometimes I Swear In Italian

Sometimes I Swear In Italian
By Anthony Buccino

Anthony Buccino's collection Sometimes I Swear In Italian is about growing up Italian American in New Jersey, discovering the roots of his ancestors.

Read about the old neighborhood where the 'bianca lina' man sold bleach to make the white linens, the young boy growing up in the house his grandfather built, and living upstairs from his scary grandma who spoke no English.

This American boy discovers the land his ancestors left to make a better life for him and his generation.

The pigeons that follow him throughout Italy provide the connection to his father - who raised homers - who didn't speak English until he started school - the rich heritage of the old country, and the enormous sacrifice of his grandparents.

Despite its title, Sometimes I Swear In Italian contains no profanity in any language.

More about the collection