November 23, 2013



At one a.m. still going strong
A smile for a minute
with the Dangling Conversation
Measuring what I’ve lost
when she held me to her breast
I was a child with all innocence of love
Starting over, out of the womb once more
Tomorrow to cry and change forty times over
Still, a smile for every minute
In love, from the instant of my birth
My second birth, more jubilant than the first
With ideas and keys to dreams
Thoughts of counting every grain of sand
Living simply, a smile at a time
Little tin soldiers and Tonka trucks
Rocking and reeling with joys of life
Trusting every shadow in every hallway
Smiling at my own degradation
Elevating my mind to flowers flowing
Daisies, rainbows and blades of grass
Tranquil and flowing, growing in euphoria
Grinning at each sensation
Leaping and groping, hoping for more
Tomorrow will come another day
with roads and paths
Leading to new doors and new pores
Openings drifting to yesterday’s dreams
Daily smiling at every second
First wonders, third smiles
passing into dim drabbles of restlessness
Questions with no answers,
none are needed – asked again
Lost to tomorrow, wasted like damnation
Useless as hatred, precious as new love
Bounding, dancing, skipping, bouncing
Elusive as a dream, a bubble that burst
Waiting for another bubble and another pin
Still, a child, wide-eyed,
stainless, spotless, immaculate
Loyal, faithful, unimpeachable,
preserved from tumbling and disorder
A child always – with love,
a second at a time, a minute at a smile
A dream of tomorrow, a memory of yesterday
Afterthoughts, all exuding today
as a remaining time that will pass
In all its beauty and splendor

-- Copyright © 2013by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Photos and content may not be used for commercial purposes without written permission.

November 9, 2013



In 1961 we went out whaling
Shooting spears off our port
Like rockets through midnight
We heard the shrill of death
As it pierced the air

In 1965 we cornered the college
Where young minds met fast lead
Like rockets through midnight
We heard the shrill of death
As it pierced the air

In 1970 we gutted the ghettos
Fire chewed through the rats’ nests
Like rockets through midnight
We heard the shrill of death
As it pierced the air

In 1970 the whales were gone
The porpoises fled for their lives
Chicano and black students studied
The extinction of life forms
But no one left a chair

In 1978 we saw the funerals
Of old age and friends and happiness
Like rockets through midnight
We heard the shrill of death
As it pierced the air

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

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.

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

October 29, 2011

Yountakah Country, a Poetic View of Nutley

A Poetic View of Nutley Old and New
By Anthony Buccino

Local writer takes some history, some folk lore and some current news and mixes them together in this humorous and thoughtful collection of verse about the little town in north eastern Essex County. On these pages, Anthony Buccino brings together the Lenni Lenape, Annie Oakley and pizza wars.

covers vary by edition