The
last I saw her was 1955.
An
Eminence in ebony.
My
Great grandmother.
At
100 or so (Cent’ anni.)
An
Alma mater.
A
Madonna.
Out-living
half of her 14 children.
An
18th century culture.
A
19th century persona.
In
20th century America,
A
land of gritty tenements/
A
life of true grit.
Leaving
the Kingdom of Italy to history.
Bridging
“Cavalera Rusticana”
to
“Rock Around the Clock.”
Pietro
Mascagni meets Bill Haley.
Italo-Americans.
Begetting
a generation of
aunts
and uncles and cousins.
Musicians interpret Notes
Actors interpret Characters.
Painters interpret Visions
Poets interpret Life.
#####
You live in a Duplex/
Looking out to the Sea.
Searching the Shore to check/
For Subs of the enemy.
You scan the sand for Things/
And pocket a buck or two.
Listening to the Surf sing/
While sipping a cold brew.
You meet same each day begun/
Who measure their wealth in
ease.
The Ocean ripples the Sun/
As it rises in the breeze.
You walk the cool Lo-tide/
Into the gentle Surf.
To Neptune’s Law complied/
And with the god converse.
You spy a Nautilus shell/
Lift it to your ear.
A seaborne Fortune-cookie to foretell:
“We wait for you my dear.”
I cannot see one foot past my
front door.
The fog that floated on “little
cat feet”
swamps me.
Wet like sweat, not cooling,
but chilling.
Have I died?
Did I die a “Noir”
death?
Have I walked onto a Hollywood
set?
A 1947 Frisco waterfront?
Where Foghorns sound the way.
Am I lost?
Passion is the poet’s eye.
The gray fog ignites grey
matter.
Emotions overwhelm.
I wander through the mist.
Where are the Foghorns?
©TPuma/MMXXII
