tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37356519498550973622012-01-22T11:32:45.372-05:00A poem a day by Anthony BuccinoEditorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00805788488287071226noreply@blogger.comBlogger1661100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3735651949855097362.post-36878264343659159452011-11-11T11:00:00.000-05:002011-11-11T11:00:00.798-05:00

ROLL CALL 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

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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

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YOUNTAKAH COUNTRY  A Poetic View of Nutley Old and NewBy 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. In Print  Kindle   NOOKOver The

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CANNED Booted, bumped, down-sized, fired, forced out, hated, hired, jobless, laid off, let go, out of work, out-sourced, pink-slipped, terminated, sacked, unemployed By Anthony Buccino The hard-hitting truth about being out of work, the strains that tag along and the sinking boat you feel you're riding in. This collection deals with a difficult subject in a very real way. It's strength is its

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SIXTEEN INCHES ON CENTERFather viewed through a grown son's eyes.By Anthony Buccino Seeing a father through a grown son's eyes. The son of a World War II veteran looks at the 20-plus years they had together, the missteps the missed opportunities, and the things that remain. On Kindle  NOOK More

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RETRIEVING LABRADOR DAYS dog tales in prose and verseStories about each of his three Labrador retrievers and some of the other dogs and people whose lives they touched.By Anthony Buccino  Shaggy dogs, mutts, mongrels, three Labrador retrievers and a pet rabbit inspire the stories and poems in this collection. Pets of one kind or another have shared the past six decades of the author's life, and

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AMERICAN BOY: Pushing SixtyAbout life and growing up in New Jersey in the 1950s,1960s, and 1970s, and growing older in the 1980s, 1990s and the oughts.By Anthony Buccino From the center of the Baby Boom, this working class verse begins under a wooden class room desk as an air raid siren sounds, and captures the summer spell and its simplicity in drinking water from a garden hose. "I read your

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VOICES ON THE BUS train, subway, sidewalk and in my headby Anthony BuccinoVerse  about commuting in Northern New Jersey. Feel the rhythm of the rails as you travel the last days of the Newark City Subway, or the PATH, and be relieved you are not present to hear the Preacher Man or Mr. Tourette's but do listen for the noise above the hum of the wheels and turn your ear to the voices on the bus,

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ONE MORNING IN JERSEY CITYVerse written along the Hudson River in Jersey City, N.J.By Anthony Buccino You can hear a lot by looking around. Sometimes, standing along the Hudson River shoreline, you can dream of the freedom in the sailing beauty slipping through the waves, or question the signals proffered by a hungry seagull, or ponder why the pigeons follow you. Or you could sit ever so still

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Thanks for joining us on this poem-a-day ride. We hope you like what you've read here and will tell your friends about your favorites. You can buy copies of the collections (they make swell gifts, too). Thanks, also, for your comments, posted here and in emails. All the best! - Anthony Buccino Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Photos and content may not be used for

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RITUAL (second tier decorations) In the cold attic they wait. The heat of summer long gone, the chill of December wheezing through eave vents, we pull down drop-stairs and peer into the darkness above. Flip the light, start shifting boxes hand them down to the second floor. Sort house decorations to the top of the stairs, boxes of ornaments and tree lights into the spare room. Boxes done,

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FINGERNAILS 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." #468 1974 -- Copyright © 1974, 2010 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

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ONE TRUE LOVE Did you spend the last fifty years with her in the morning kitchen worrying together through evening bouts of doubt Are the children safe? The grand kids okay? Will the K-car start tomorrow? Can we afford to fix it if it won’t? What’s on cable TV tonight? Is our dog getting enough cheese? Did your one true love leave you looking like a frigging penguin standing alone outside the

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WHAT’S IT LIKE TO BE What’s it like to be Married to different people At different times, of course, But how is it different? Do you spend a lot of time Comparing this one with that one? Do you try not to repeat mistakes That you’ve learned? What is it like Each day to be with Somebody who is Different than the one You thought you’d spend The rest of your days with? - By Anthony Buccino From

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THAT FIRST KISS No wonder he had to steal a kiss! (1970) My first kiss came on a cold November night, A Saturday after Thanksgiving in a stranger’s church. My first kiss was a surprise, not for me, I’d been thinking about it all night. But she was surprised when she tried to shake my hand in peace I charged in and stole that kiss. Her light blue eyes – I am still remembering And the

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AQUARIUM Somehow it seemed I got everything I wanted. I wanted a German shepherd, I got a mutt named Butch. I wanted an aquarium just like my friend Rich had. His had guppies and swordfish and neon tetras, catfish and snails, too. I wanted an aquarium and the fish and the purple gravel and the lighted lid and aerator pump and the wrought iron stand that went with it all. I wanted to set up

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DON’T TRUST MYSELF I don’t trust myself to be here years from now When it’s time to retire, kick off my shoes, and Slip into that coma of retirement. It’s a matter of all those things that came before Finally coming around to get their due And collect the toll to pay that appears too large. I don’t trust myself to change the few things left to change That would make up for decades past

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PALS In the middle of the night the TV lights the room he snores in the recliner the big dog alongside him snores almost in unison. The TV show neither one sees and neither one hears, a movie repeated from before when they fell asleep at the early edge of night. -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Photos and content may not be used for commercial purposes without

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ALL THE BEST FOODS Turns out the little pills they assign you every day that fix your cholesterol and manage your sugar and keep your blood steady and fix a bunch of things that won't fix themselves and as you take that handful of meds you are reminded to drink more water because water is good for you but not too much water, you know, you have a separate pill for that And remember those

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ADVICE Now, Sam, did you really think That you could step out of mediocrity And step into the love of your life? You didn’t think you could do it Without having lost once or twice And you can’t keep love alive without Working and struggling at it. If you thought it was so simple Now, you know it’s not And the loss of your most sacred lover Will pass as others come before you. Remember now as

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PIPELINE CREEK Belleville, N.J. We played our games and looked under rocks Alongside the creek where the water bubbled up Through a sandy swirl of a drainage ditch On the low side of the underground water pipeline Where it crosses under buzzing power lines overhead On the hottest days of our Jersey season of steam We always found water flowing, always enough To soak our summer sneakers and

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ON MY SHOES Pompeii, Italy Horses pulled carts down these ancient streets Rocks and trenches, uncovered now After centuries of mystical curses There you see the woodless rooms On these dusty roadways so old It rained a torrent in the streets of Pompeii Here, in the middle of narrow streets You see stepping stones to cross in floods And troughs centuries old that wagons rode Yet the brothel

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TWO PAYCHECKS Once, you laughed at her rag picker's frumpy clothes, and her stringy, dirty hair, but now, you see, you're just two paychecks away. I never thought you would be so snooty like you have forgotten where it is you started your clothes were always clean your hair washed and brushed and a roof always overhead. But now, you see, you're just like her and me, just two paychecks away

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TRAVELS I want to go somewhere where I can see without my glasses the faces of strangers the lines in their faces the wrinkles on their trousers the pleats in their skirts I want to go somewhere where the headlights don’t blind me till I cry the ground lights don’t sneak up from my shoes or the flood lights flood over me with light I want to go some where Where I can see in the dark - By

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HANDCAR I always wanted to drive one of those special trucks that also ride on railroad tracks. You don’t have to steer much, accelerate and brake is all. I guess they use them for maintenance work. They ride the tracks on those metal wheels that real trains have. I’ve even thought of operating one of those see-saw cars where you pump the handle and it goes on the railroad tracks. You used

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YOUR BIRTHDAY Jersey City, NJ In honor of your birthday I fed the pigeons on the pier. A few showed up, then a few more. Seagulls arrive to watch from a distance Squawk for their friends to join the scrim For pieces of bread I've cast off for them Into the Hudson River shallows But mostly today, in honor of your birthday I fed the pigeons on the pier. - By Anthony Buccino from SIXTEEN

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WORKING FATHER He's so old and worn,been through a lot since he was bornWorks hard everydayto put food in our mouthsso we don't have to payTries to love us but can't,begins to show us,he's proud, but can'tBeen in a war,fighting and sick,he's lived through fourHe coughs and gagsfrom years of choking his smokes, we pretend not to hear, His shirt is dull and torn,from nails and rails, and he's old

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PREACHER MAN H is for almost home! Down three flights of stairs to the NCS Light Rail. A car is pulling in. I grab a seat and then see him. “Brudders and sisters,” the Preacher Man says, “I am here to tell you the news about heaven …” He always waits until the car pulls out of the station before he begins. “I used to smoke, cheat, steal … Jesus gave me a new …” You figure it isn’t easy

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VALIUM BREEZE On a breezy day in the northwest corner of our town you could smell the vitamins cooking across the road. Nowadays you see the modern buildings, sky high and full of workers. But a hundred years ago in that very same clearing, the circus settled in and dear Miss Annie Oakley came to town by train and practiced shooting in the pre-Valium breeze. And they named a nearby

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INDIAN TRADERS Just a few hundred years ago in the thick green undergrowth where the Yanticaw Creek meets the wide old Passaic River the fish surrendered by jumping into hollowed dugout canoes. From the banks of Delawanna to the overhang at Brookdale Park wampum changed hands in peace and prosperity for generations. The people, the True People, Lenni Lenape, celebrated the yantacaw, a

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OLD MAN How patient you were as you watched me play with my plastic men or the carpet strewn with dead soldiers, scattered toy guns and tanks. The explosion noises I made with my child’s mouth were some ironic twist to your fate. For here you were, spendingyour lifetime to forget what your son innocently brings up again in your face. After all this time I realize I spent my time trying to

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BAD BOYS We had tough guys in my neighborhood. They were always angling for a fight. They were the first guys in the trouble du jour. When we got caught the cops gave us a rap Then when we got home Pop whooped us good. But with some tough guys it never sank in. They tried the next worse thing and then the next, too. After so much trouble they got to go in the Army and fight in the jungle.

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WHAT PA DIDN’T SAY Dad was never much of a talker a few words here and there a short story in an economy of words about the adventures of one of his homers Dad was never much of a writer He never left a note to say he was running out for breakfast or would be back in a little while so it was a great surprise for all when some of his Guadalcanal letters  appeared more than twenty years 

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WAR MOVIES The louder the better it always seemed. No matter. He always fell asleep before John Wayne won the war or the sad dog whimpered at the cavalryman’s fate. Who knew what he knew? He never said anything except to mention malaria and those old photos we found of native women in grass skirts. But that was such a small part of the things he carried inside. It wasn’t jolly, or fun. It

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OVERALLS People laugh at the Li’l Abner look where the tops of my shitkickers have a large gap to the bottom of my pin-striped bib overalls. Don’t the stripes make me look taller? It’s not the effect you see in these overalls. I wear them because they are functional, made of tough material, and have lots of pockets and a twisted loop for my 16-oz. Stanley hammer. Your pockets can get full of

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AFTERMATH Don't come to me when you're not feeling wellDon't come to me or make me tellYou how I wish I could heal every bone you call your ownAnd don't ask me to cleanse your soulAfter this, only time can make you whole You're leaving here And you're going To meet your husbandWho gave you your childAnd all the whileThat I held your handYou still wore his golden bandYour leaving now is the endBut

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PUNCH LINE She thinks she's dyinBut I know she won'tI'm asking why'nShe's sayin don't I don't wanna have a baby, mama, I don't wanna dieI don't wanna be a mother, mama, I don't wanna cryI don't wanna be a wife, mama, I don't wanna lieI don't wanna have a baby, mama, I don't wanna die -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. On her miscarriage. ****************** Carnival

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POEM FOR CHILDHOODFor Dennis Never a boot in the ass from these shoesNor a stomp on an instep to wield a crippling ballyhooNo kicks to the groins or knuckles to the jawJust a slowly moving mind recording what it saw He was a youngster like me In the days before we had to worryAbout loading real bullets into real gunsAnd we never had any carnage to bury Skinny with a long bony faceHis mind’s speed

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TURPS When girls say turps For turpentine It rubs me the wrong way. I’m jealous they had it better With their fathers than I did with mine. Their fathers shared the lingo Turps for turpentine. Shortcuts for washing A soaked paint brush. Girls who learned to hammer And built things with their dads And climbed ladders to rooftops And snapped the blue plumb line for dad It rubs me the wrong way.

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TO MARIE There you are, smiling, your jackhammer arms resting across the barrel of your cannon. The chalk mark names the woman you love to “Marie Lovely” from the jungle on Guadalcanal. You decided to wait til you got back to marry the skinny girl you met at the roller rink. Some of the guys you’re serving with didn’t. You’re sure, right now, you made the right choice. To "Marie”, her name in

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AND A BOHEMIAN HAT If I really wanted to be a poetI’d have gotten out new sunglassesAnd a Bohemian hatI’ve already got the mumbling down patAnd some old clothes in a trunk for the street-wise Oh what a poet I’d have madeWith just a little education and a louder mouthI could put them all to shameIf I knew what I was doing I would-a done it when I came -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all

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COMING ALONG You know and I knowThere’s something better I can doSomething better than sitting inThe Town Pub to get close to drunkSomething better than workingLike a boss telling myselfI’ll be leaving soon. Something better than lying to myselfIs maybe you lying to meSomething better always comes alongAnd you keep telling me so -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Adapted

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ONE MORE WEEK Young men today can be seenRetiring in twenty yearsEnduring the platitudesAnd men with sparing educations The chances the young men missedThe archives of men in motionCursing inanimate objectsThat can neither feel nor give pain The young man, a bachelor todayThree kids tomorrow, a mortgageAnd hungry growing mouths to feed“It’ll be great to retire someday.” Never planning to stay

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EARLY FRIDAY NIGHT REFLECTIONS Don’t know what’s gotten into meIt looks like another strikeAnd half of me is on the picket line We’re pulling down and building upBut it seems to all the passers-byThat what we do, it just don’t help Hurts like sand in a boot makes toes cryThen it occurred to me in the heat of an ironHold on close to your dreams whatever they seem Just keep trucking along like

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COLUMBIA Against the wall there are palletsOf coffee grown in ColumbiaRoasted in Hoboken, Calumet or JacksonvilleInside the wall are many menAnd women who have come to workIf for no other reason than it is hereOutside the wall there is the sunThat gives life to the grassTo the trees and children who drink it inAgainst the wall are groundsOf coffee from Columbia handledBy people who work in

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FIVE DOLLARS AN HOUR A pain in the assA wise crack that insultsVague morality and false superstitionThey never notice a mindThat is wasted insideThese four walls and pallets of coffeeThey just see a young manStupid, with a strong backIncapable of fighting or lovingJust another fool in hereWho sacrificed freedomFor the almighty dollarAnd five dollars an hour -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino,

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VACATION We always need a vacationAfter a day’s vacation, or a week’s.It’s always the sameThere’s always too much workAnd not enough men to do it.(Actually, it’s the other way aroundBut we’re sworn to secrecy.)We’re so very tired of working so hardHardly enough work for the workers,Er, I mean workers for the work.And we’re always in need of a breakOr a year-long vacation. -- Copyright © 2010 by

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PEER GROUP Those working menThey vulgarize you,They take your sweet dreamsAnd stuff them up your assThen turn you aroundAnd tear down your class Those working menAll vulgarize youThey castigate you For trying to passThey laugh at youWhen you fail Those working menScratch at your hopeThey lost theirsSo very long ago -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Adapted from

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THE CARPENTER AND THE PRETTY GIRL Newark in those days was the place to be Everyone from everywhere went there the subway lines crisscrossed the streets and the kids of all ages met at Branch Brook Park. The Olmstead park, like its big sister in New York was wrought from rolling raw farmland in the city and shaped into ponds and rolling fields to please the crowds At the big park in

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THE INSANE POET The insane poetWas not insane when he cameOnly after years of torturesHis brain abusedHis creativity stifledAnd worse yet, being laughed at The temper that is his poetryGrew in fires of frustrationThe body grew fit yet run down byThe constant crushing pressuresWhirling in his mindThe worst kind of interest The insane poetIs locked in a coffee warehouseAs trapped as any working

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THE HAIRCUT I almost hate to take off my hatAfter I’ve had my haircutThe guys on the job always ask“Who cut your hair?”And before I begin to tell themThey answer themselves“Attilla the Hun – with a lawn mowerAfter he got his eyes poked out!”Saving me the agony and troubleOf removing my hat again -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Adapted from long-lost FROM A WAREHOUSE

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DOG’S DAY Middle class dreamsLackluster loveTell you what I meanBy freeing a doveBig shots in big carsLimousinesWho needs ‘em, Who feeds ‘em,Who knows?Rush, rush, scurry aboutBig men worry and poutDig it? Dig it? Get it, yet?Of course you do! You bet!People tell you what to doWho needs ‘em?No one spends his money on youWho leads ‘em?Wait. Wait your turnLive and learnOne day, maybe, you’ll Get

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JEALOUSY It’s only their jealousyOf your youthYou with your life ahead of you.Their jealousy tells them to destroy.Your pride says to fightHowever you canAnd for as long Be prepared for the worstBrace yourselfAgainst the painWhen they aim their fangsAt your neckBut end up bitingBetween your legs There’s no one on your sideExcept your youthWhich they hate you forIn the first place It’s only their

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LABOR’S LAMENT #7 I got to work todayWith the same dirt‘neath my nailsThat was there Yesterday when I leftThere’s no one to blame or care‘cept the fellow with my nameAnd he doesn’t dare The nicotine stains are heavyGrowing darker and deeper each day;Ain’t no bleach can take them outThere’s no one to blame or care‘cept the fellow with my nameAnd he doesn’t dare My teeth are yellow and brokenAin’t

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WILD THINGS Don’t hurt the wild things we know how much you hurt inside and don’t be cruel to your pets we know how bitterness eats you inside look around you, pal everything sucks and the best thing about being down so far is the only place you got to go from here is up you got the world by the balls it’s something you forgot on your way down -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights

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TWO MORE NEW JERSEYANS KILLED IN IRAQ WAR 6.27.08 No one wants to read about the war anymore, they want it done, over with. Bring our soldiers home. No one wants to read about reporters embedded with the troops and what it’s like in the desert. Bring our soldiers home. No one wants to read about suicide bombers who kill their own people and ours. Bring our soldiers home. No one wants to

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DO THIS, DON’T DO THAT People are always trying to change meExchange me and rearrange meThat’s not their place, it’s my faceThey try to make me think like themDrink like them and stink like themI’m a me, I’m not a youThey try to make me write like themFight like them and be contrite like themI like me the way I am People try to make me sleep like themCreep like them and peep like themI’m not like

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MARCHES ON What a drag it is in hereBoredom marches on Like the moans of the weary I don’t remember anythingI did a week agoAnd I don’t really want to There’s too much rain Not enough sunNot enough fun It’s such a drag in hereBoredom marches onLike the moans of the weary I’m weary and waryFed up with your Work a day and your charms Tired of your yeses And your no’s I moan like the weary. --

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FROM A WAREHOUSE I’m too sensitive to be lockedInto the every day droneOf a coffee warehouse I should be secluded On a mountainWith a cabin and a pen I’d write on the wallsOr not at allBut it’s fair to say I’m too sensitive to be lockedInto the every day droneOf a coffee warehouse -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Adapted from long-lost FROM A WAREHOUSE chapbook. ******

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AFTER A FIRE After the fire in the house around the corner, the family of the man who died put up a sign that read “We Found All the Money. Now. Stay Out” The firemen reported problems finding the man in the midnight fire and smoke that killed him. The rooms were cluttered and jammed with the things of his life and there was no room for shrouded firemen to move For the longest time

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COLUMBUS What do you see from the shore? You don't see the sea. Not really, you only see the river. There's no one I'd know to taste the water to see if it's briny like the sea or fresh like a river. I'd rather die than drown in this river. What did Columbus or Henry Hudson see when he first sailed this route? This river like the ocean that spits out sailors. This river where you can

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QUIET ONE Maybe it would surprise you that I was the quiet one. No, really. I live most of the time inside my head. I like it there. I can travel in time. I can be a hero. I can relive humiliation, and then come back to today. Maybe it would surprise you that as I write this I’m failing. Well, my hand’s failing. My fingers are numb. I’m holding the pen now with my pinky and thumb and though I

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NOAH IN THE BELLY OF THE WHALE Tell me quickly, How long was Noah in the belly of the whale? BzTT! Time’s Up Oh, man, you’re going to hate yourself if you said, "Three days!" Fact is, Noah wasn’t in the belly of the whale. It was Jonah that ended up with the sushi in the belly of the great fish. A long time ago, God says to Jonah, ‘Jonah, I want you to go to Ninevah and tell them to

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DA VINCI PAINTS MY HOUSE da Vinci paints my house,  the shutters are camouflage. Fermi fixes my furnace,  it doesn’t hum, it ticks. Galileo is my personal trainer,  he leaves stretch charts behind. Newton trims my trees,  leaves apple bushels by the back door. Milton writes my insurance policy,  suggests a heavenly rider. Plato teaches 7th grade history,  seats bad boys in the corner. Marconi

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RETURN TO DODGE 2008, Newton, N.J. If I was a famous poet I would eat in the famous poets tent and have food for famous poets but instead I head back to Mimmo’s over and over for the minestrone, the chicken cutlets and the Taylor ham, egg and cheese And each time I go they ask my name to write it on the ticket and when Rose, the owner’s wife, brings it over, she says, “you again?” She’s

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THE MAN IN THE YELLOW BOX ATOP THE SKYSCRAPER UNDER CONSTRUCTION The man in the yellow box atop the skyscraper under construction climbs all those flights of stairs to get to the seat where he sits to run the long hands of the building crane. The yellow heart-shaped pulley does most of the work Its cable long like a spaghetti lifting and toting supplies to places the man in the yellow box

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THE BODY WANTS What the body wants Is oh so easy to see When what it wants Comes almost close enough to touch The simple scent Of what the body wants Enrages the senses And engorges the veins In a clamoring reach For what the body wants The touch of body to body The feel of flesh upon flesh The mixing of the senses The eruption of emotions Reaching for what The body wants What the body

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PBJ Some times when things get tough you want to go home, when it looks like the end of the world or you’re about to lose everything you love, some times you want to go home for lunch and have Ma serve up a pbj and you would be sure again that everything will work out -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Photos and content may not be used for commercial purposes

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OZZIE Danielle worked at my back she here from somewhere in Australia perfect accent, a perfect English with a slight twist Always proper, like Mary Poppins Always perfectly put Her boyfriend here also from Australia then he went back. Then she went back and the lilt of her perfect accent gone -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Photos and content may not be used for

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ROLL CALL 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

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ROAMING THE AISLES OF TJ MAXX 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

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RAIN IN PISA Pisa, Italy It wasn’t the rain That made the tower lean And if you’re wondering I didn’t do it. It was like that When I got here. Umbrellas and cameras As everybody stood turn Holding from a distance The leaning tower While we sashayed Through the ancient arch And had caffe across From the Cinese Restaurant in Pisa. -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved.

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HAPPY POEMS Does anyone write happy poems poems that make you burst out loud with laughter until your side and face hurt? Maybe we need more poems about clowns and skirted dogs and talking fish that say funny things or quote the confused words of the man of failing health so we can see how cute he is as we laugh him off the page -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved.

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LOST LOVER One too many bottles of wine were opened For I drank out of that last final one Hoping to see you in the sun I saw only night Hoping to make you happy we both misunderstood One too many late nights I wrote too many poems Said too many wrong words used too much ink I dropped the last straw but that had to be Hoping to see you again I never will - By Anthony Buccino

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AWFUL TREE POEM I think that you shall never see me write a poem about a tree as long ago in grade school class I needed to read a poem aloud to pass when I took that famous Kilmer poem and memorized the thing like my own it came down to the day I read it aloud the clamoring students gathered as a crowd and I stumbled through mixing up the best and they laughed me humbly back to my desk

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AFTER THE FRUIT Midrash For this juice I have traded eternity Alone with him Forever here Pleasant, but oh There must be Something more What are children? What is music? What is beyond these gates? Now, I must know. -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. ****************** Carnival

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BRING YOUR OWN AUDIENCE With a nod to Ray Brown If I had my own audience, why would I travel to Clinton? I'd just have them line up on my front lawn. They could sit there from night time to dawn or until I think of something that rhymes with Clinton! Relatives say, oh, yeah, you're the one who writes the books Tell me, am I in any of them that I should buy to see what you say I've never

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DRIVES Drives a Suburban in the city A Chevy near the levee in Jersey City Drives an Escalade near the esplanade -- Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Content may not be used for commercial purposes without written permission. ****************** Carnival

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RED BENCHES Grundy Pier, Jersey City, NJ You’ll have red benches to sit on if this construction ever gets done. We’ve been going on two years and although we’re closer, it’s not done. See the painters coating the railings? Why do painters wear white hats and white overalls? They can’t paint too many things white and all the other colors show up with a splash of pea green paint - By Anthony

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BURNING LEAVES Mesmerized by the roaring flames from the pit and pile of sparking arcs as black walnut tree leaves caught fire and withered to smoke and ash while the breeze cast a sooty fog over my clothes and our large yard. A private and small fireworks show: Embers burst in midair singeing my eyebrows and dirty blond hair burning holes in my sweatshirt as rotten logs smoldered into

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YOUR PHOTO When I think of the way I would photograph you Of course I see the light and the shades and the bounce in your pony tail when you turn your head This photo would capture your youthful vibrance that still makes me feel younger from this far away Yes, this photo will expose your cute crinkles near your eyes when you share your contagious smile that melts people into wanting to be near

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CRISP Everything looks crisp in the sunlight of the new day, even the shadows are smiling at me. I’m back where the cast off stairs go down into the water when the tide is just right you might think of stepping in to a dream. On this day forgo Buffett’s cheeseburger in Paradise for a cheese chili dog on the Jersey City waterfront. As long as little girls stop to pick pretty yellow flowers

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NO ACCIDENT The way things work The way they fit together To become these things A blade of grass so erect and green Seagull feathers Hollow bricks Light bulbs Tall buildings Hemangioma A stem cell Or a DNA molecule I know this all Is no accident - By Anthony Buccino From ONE MORNING IN JERSEY CITY Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Photos and content may not be used

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RIDING BACKWARDS while traveling on the lightrail or train or the street car to St. Charles unsettles some hapless commuters. Things moving away evoke the rush of falling off a cliff and not landing until the next stop. It’s odd to see the sun set in the east reflected in the opposite window. But we’re so grateful to be on the lightrail heading home. Many of us scurried en masse down three

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DEAR BOSS It’s been twenty-five years since we worked together. You remember, after twelve years you traded me to another location for someone with the same job title as mine They want to get rid of him and you thought I would be better off there, I could learn more as a small fish in a big pond. Well, you know how it all went down. The trying times I had, the angst and all the ire and you and

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THE BOOTCH Maybe some day they’ll name a ferry after me? The Bootch. And everyone can ride The Bootch to play Tourist in the Big City or go home to the rest of America after a day of wonders. I shall do a poetry reading. You can join me. We’ll have others, strangers get on and off and I’ll keep talking, reading my poetry, pretending I still have feeling in my fingers, that if I wanted to, I

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SURPRISE I still surprise you sometimes by doing things neither of us thought I would. You, in particular, you thought you know that something I do without ever thinking caught you pleasantly off guard and you smiled. After all these years - By Anthony Buccino From ONE MORNING IN JERSEY CITY A love poem. Copyright © 2010 by Anthony Buccino, all rights reserved. Photos and content may not be

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OLD MAN UP THE BLOCK The old man up the street died – but I don't know how long ago or why In fact, I never shook his hand or learned his name - or about his family except that he was alone The last time I spoke with him was about a year or so ago about aluminum siding his house After the summer and siding I barely spied him around his home or back at the Dunkin Donuts He told me he

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SHOESTORE WRITER When I left the shoe store job after a few months I got my Saturdays back And left with a line for the ladies I'd meet I like your pumps, your stacks, your high heels It would have been a sure thing if only I could remember which was which Because ladies in 1972 never expected a guy to know the difference in a women’s shoes. I spent a lot of my shoe store pay On hot dogs

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QUANTUM LOOP Can I leap now? Al, why haven’t I leaped? Isn’t my work here done? What does Ziggy say? Al? Al? Can you hear me, Al? Why haven’t I leaped? Didn’t I do what Ziggy says I should? Al? I came years ago and wrote down what I saw, what I saw before it changed. And now I scripted aftermath. Wasn’t all that why I was here, Al? Can you ask Ziggy for me? - By Anthony Buccino From ONE

Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00805788488287071226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3735651949855097362.post-12981293844289482102010-09-12T00:09:00.005-04:002011-02-10T11:38:51.842-05:00

SOMETIMES ON THE TRAIN Sometimes on the train or wherever, when you’re reading something, well, sometimes you don’t want the ride to end. Sometimes you want to hear the chatter of strangers. Sometimes you just want to keep on reading and stay in that magical world of ink stains that dried upon some page, just stay there on the train. - By Anthony Buccino From VOICES ON THE BUS Copyright ©

Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00805788488287071226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3735651949855097362.post-85996764016981482062010-09-11T07:40:00.002-04:002011-09-09T11:01:25.276-04:00

NEW HERE Those young men joked in our evacuation drill about how they’d tear down the stairs. They must be new here. They thought it was funny. We queued & stepped carefully down eight flights & met at our spot behind the fence in the parking lot while behind us others checked the closets & the stalls & these two guys said if it were a real emergency they’d be like that Seinfield guy and

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PEOPLE AT THE RAILING Seems to be more people than usual standing at the railing staring across the river Can’t blame them you know not only a beautiful view but I know many of the strangers who visit here like me are looking at the shadow of things that used to be. Four years doesn’t make the sadness go away or the memory disappear. We all still see what used to be, there, across the river.

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A FOLLOWING BLUE BEAM In my back yard a blue beam streaks to the sky and ends at a glowing star The light starts below the tree line somewhere distant and fades away swallowed by the summer night sky We walk on into the evening watching uneven sidewalks and curbs hidden in the dark eyes on the ground ahead forgetting completely the beam for the moment at hand and then a breeze or something

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RUMOURS OF WAR Curled on the floor under my desk I’m waiting for the end of the world. The bell keeps ringing and we kids lie silent with dust bunnies and scraps of paper. Philomena always whimpers when we find ourselves like this. She’s learned to whimper softly or fear being thrown out on the street. And we all know the street is no place to be at the end of the world. Curling up with

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FIXING THE ROOF Carpenter Street, Belleville, N.J. Squirrels ate a hole in our roof. They came and went in our attic as they pleased. At night you could hear them doing the things squirrels do at night. At first, Dad put a metal plate over the hole to keep them out. It didn’t work. They scampered at will across the sharp sloped roof from high branches in the black walnut and they had

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THE OLD GUYS HATED ME My gal said it was because of my youth of my health, of my long life ahead. I could tell they hated me becauseof my long hair and their crew cuts, my carefree hippie ways and them buried by bills. Most of them had seen service in World War II or Korea and they cheered at world unrest that might reach my high draft number. Those old guys hated me more, if that was even

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CURSE OF THE BUTTONS After David Tucker I’m going to be late. I can’t help it you see, but this shirt I planned to wear isn’t doing anything good for me. The sleeves are laughing, the left and right. I try to feed each hard round button through invisible slits but the front buttons are fighting hidden holes as fingers with no feeling try to press a quarter through a dime slot. I’m going

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INEFFABLE Meanwhile poets sit in a room each seeking the ineffable in the words in their mind in the images and notions surrounding them. Meanwhile your thoughts run up hill and her thoughts stop at the crossing and my words are stalled on the railroad track So without a word or a casual glance the pens take to paper, the words flowing through, ink staining in scribbles as thoughts transform

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OUT THE WINDOW Sitting on this stupid train in the middle of nowhere in New Jersey’s steaming swamp we ask each other What’s going on? And everyone’s clueless. When the speaker crackles with the conductor’s voice you’d swear someone started an engine that’s already running. Who knows what he said? If you got a seat, you hunker down pretend there’s no one else here to hear you when you

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