Borsalino

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A Turkish hilltown tailor’s shop sold hats that caught my eye
Variations on flat caps, mariner’s caps, Lenin caps, and newsboys.
Inside the warren of hanging suits, ladders, and occupied clerks
At the back, a beefy man with a yellow beard hammered leather.
In Dutch he asked what I was looking at.
I turned up my nose at his floppy flowered hats.
At another shop I found a soft leather cap in brown
And told the hovering clerk I would take it.
By the time I chased him to the long till to pay the price
He and the hat were gone.
Pity. I shrugged. There would be more shops along the way.
Right then I had places to go instead of chasing a whim.
In a Greek town I spotted a brown borsalino
Skinny, with a shadowed face, slouching outside the bar.
Gangster style, a dashing Delon
White shirt, black tie, pleated trousers, tan trench.
We shared a coffee and a cigarette, proud men with vices.
Fascination led us to a second cig and an amaro.
He let slip the sadness in his eyes, perhaps knowing I saw it.
We laughed over absurdities and forgot ourselves.
Later I took him home.
I’ve still got that borsalino, as comfortable and reassuring as ever
A perfect fit, a faithful companion and shelter from the rain.
Under it I hear an occasional fascist rant about foreigners, the tough shell
But like his other emotions, he inhabits them until he has blown off steam.
He has a kind forgiving soul and deeply loves those he loves.
Bad is never bad when we are together.

Timber!

We knew each other as young men
Fighting fires and comparing notes
Songs of the sixties
Satisfaction meets Desolation Row
A few toppled like the trees we felled
Wayne the singing lecturer with dementia
Don the Nisei later QC by heart attack
Ted forest director with a stroke.
We were fun loving boys
Verging on men
Kings of high school, invincible gods
Later to be invisibly ancient
Doting on babies babies as we fade away
Famous to those who loved us
With our hopes and ambitions.
A forest recovers by consuming its own
Filling voids left by the fallen until
No one can tell what is from what was.
We are swallowed by the grand design.
Seedlings sprout where the earth was torn
Boys will grow to be like their fathers
To be felled again in their turn
Succession stops for no one.
The inevitable is not tragic or sad
Mature trees have given shelter
For the next generation to reach
A serene and healthy maturity.

Silver Screen

Luminous composed probably terrified
Flattered by the attention but uncomfortable
Thin skinned with no sense of superiority.
I watched you glide through the soft focus
From eager teen to faithful sister
Not sure where you were going.
When you fell for your pocket Svengali
He marketed you as something
You were not.
Babies put paid to the movies
Giving you good reason
To back away from the vapid circus
Of glamour, bitches, and bullies
That had once been so enchanting.
By the time we met
Your husband had wandered
And come back
Your babies were out of your control
And your fairy tale existence
Had dwindled to mother caretaker
Manager of problematic children
Houses and staff
So you husband could bask
In his past glory
While you battled depression
And a family who did not see
Your daily struggle with tears
Though it’s what made you watchable.
Quitting was a good idea
As you were a mediocre Salieri
But I loved your ironic modesty
And acceptance of the fact
You were not and never could be
A Magnani
Who flung open the doors of emotion.

Recuerdos de Andalucia

Women don’t visit
Each other’s houses here
But meet in the market
As the home is private
No visitors please
We live on the street
Or in the dark.

To shake out my dusty laprobe
Between storms I step onto the road
Where an almond blossom sun
Lights up a silk and cream angel walking by
Mustachio with liquid benevolent eyes.

Most men here
Don’t shave every day
Could be laziness
Or proof of a manly beard
To indulge in hiring
Everybody’s servant
The barber
To wait on them
Careful razor.

I thought of mutilating
Myself somehow
To be ashamed
Of meeting people again
Creeping agoraphobia
Purple wisteria strangling
That’s why I’m learning
The straight razor
To flirt with dangerous curves
Vincent, be careful with that ear.

I had the fars
When the corner of the room
Was across the world
And numbers spun too fast to count
My body was reduced to bone
Or fevered and swollen, alive only
Where skin touches skin.

A strange wind blows in on the heels of rain
Ominous from a new quarter, rattling
Malevolent at secure windows and doors
Angry harbinger of extra weather.

Sparrows swoop
Between narrow houses
Death star battles
In tight combat
Through claustrophobic walls.

As man surges against his chains
Beautiful and powerful
As long as he remains bound
In exquisite torment.

Manic macabre death dance
Pirouettes, running leaps, dervish spins
Hollow, whitefaced and empty foreigners
Joylessly scooping up images and souls.

An eagle, a serpent on the back, wings beating
Baboons in order of domination
Wrestlers pinning each other down
Biting the back of the neck
Anointed by the demon
Supercharged and savage
Overheated reptiles cooling.

I woke in the afternoon
With the Stones on the radio
Singing about too much blood.
I was hard and the drums
Of a Good Friday procession
Pounded in the distance.

Solitude is a masochists art
I am a man under the heel
Indifferent, empty, caring nothing.
A hard shell that cannot be crushed
Waiting for a particular touch
To take me past oblivion.

I see the future as a human invention
A compulsion to structure
Anthills out of chaos
Driven by instinct
And the accident of existence.

Greek Fragments

Flight over Athens
A music box discus that
Plays bouzouki scores
Bristling pegged boxes
In Titograd style.

On the sun God’s island
A dawn symphony
Of cat and donkey phonemes.
Pissing under the Acropolis
On marble stones.
Houses rebuilt from the rubble
Of time-shaken principles.

Weaving arabesques to the kitchen
Where tiny wings pave the granilla sink.
A battlefield of birthing and mass escape
Into metamorphosed life.
The angels left their wings behind.

The bonds of slavery bleed.
A thousand drop rain of tears and sweat
For lost chances of the past
Swept away
By the persistent brush
Of the captive present.

The street sweeper can distinguish
A fool from a clown.
The man is lettered
And married into property.
When the olive grove burned
He helped put out the flames
With fire in his eyes
And beaded sweat on his brows.

The English traveller
Surrounded by mythic romantics
Sprawls lasciviously on the beach
Reading Captive of Desire.

A jazz sextet invades my dream
Through a fermenting summer
Of uncut grapes on the vine.
Night music pulls me
Across a rough mosaic floor
Onto an explosive leaf
Which crackles like movie row cellophane.
Your cigarette burns in the doorway
Nobody comes when I call.

Come outside my friend.
Diagonal night horses surge.
Unbridled on passionate thighs
They foam rampant on the rocks.
In a blast of righteous creation
The walls of Gericault crumble.
August figs rip through the trees
And thud gaping on the ground.
No palace is immune to attack.

A blind man touches the icon
Seeking a gentle reminder
That parallel forces can meet.
You and I
Unable to make connections
Remain outside of reverence
Parted by an ancient sea.

Work Camp

Full moon Saturday night payday
Northern dusk in the middle of the night
Ninety degrees, all windows wide
An accordion struggles with My Bonnie Lassie
Hard strumming guitar
“I don’t care if it rains or freezes
‘long as I’ve got my plastic Jesus.”
Big Julie laughs uproariously
At the end of the bunkhouse.
Mayiuk and the other malamute
Break into a fight
As Rod and Diana scream
At each other and the dogs
Canada geese honk by overhead.

Duty Free

You didn’t ask to be born first
Though your ego suited the part.
If they are capable
Older siblings are responsible
For others in the brood.
Your passive aggressive tyranny
Kept everyone in line
But you were a moody bitch from the start.
One day it was all sweetness and care
Another you’d throw our toys down a hole.
You’re the one who remembers birthdays
Gifts and visits when people are ill.
You’re the nurse. Duty dictates.
Someone has to do it
But we’re big enough to buy
Our own Easter treats.
You insist. It’s your duty
And it will sweeten
Your future barbed remarks.
When you speak out of turn
Apologies aren’t forthcoming
But later there will be
A self deprecating joke
A sweet, and should be forgiven.
You didn’t mean to be mean
But your old anger surged
Still bitter about being knocked off
The only child pedestal.
You insist you are always right
And say “I know” to everything
As if you are an oracle
The font of all knowledge.
The last word. Control.
Something you always wanted.

Déjà?

You should have checked the time
It was later than you thought
But then you didn’t expect
To make it this far.
Surviving your mother
Was as far as you got.
Ossie we called you
For the ostrich who sticks
His head in the sand
But that’s a myth.
You were probably rolling over
The eggs in your nest
Taking temperatures to separate
The living from the dead.
I wasn’t dead
But I wouldn’t be your baby.
Mothering was wasted on me.
Disobedient, willful, negative.
You tried with other babies
But nothing stuck and now
It’s too late for anyone.
Uncharacteristically
You check the clock and say
Déjà? Already?
You thought there would be more
But there wasn’t.
You quote your drinking aunties
Break out the booze
And forget the time.

Babbo

I have Mario to thank for you.
He was a self-centred egomaniac like me.
If you hadn’t learned to survive him
We’d never have been together.
You punctured his buffoonery
When he played the clown.
His philandering ways were a bad example
To a boy in need of moral stability.
You couldn’t give him credit
Because he didn’t earn it.
Both of you craved money and respect.
Both came out wanting.
Youth forced you to adapt
To the needs of an egoist.
You fought for your side
With courage and indignation
And seethed when you were trumped
By his domestic dictatorship.
I’m kinder than he was.
I didn’t have six kids to raise.
He tamed but didn’t break you
So I am the one who gets an easy ride.
You forgive me my trespasses
Because I am here for you.
That’s what counts
When you have crossed swords
With a man who was a father
In name only.
It’s a joy to be your Daddy
Or anything you want me to be.
You are happy to be loved
By an ever present father
Who has never felt like a real dad
Except to you.

Much Love

Do I love you too much?
Or is it the wrong kind of love?
It’s unconditional like a mother loves her son.
I’d rather hurt myself than you.
I want to protect you
But nobody can defend you from yourself.
You walk along the top of the wall.
Only you know why.
“Be careful!” I call out
And worry about where you will land.
You’re not capable or handy
Because you don’t want to be.
You dream big, 
Not interested in pocket change.
For you the future doesn’t exist
Except in a misty showers of riches
You’d spend in a day.
I plan, inform, organize, and act 
So we can feather our mutual nest 
And I carry you with me,
Happy to do so because I love you.
I love you more than I love myself.
You’re coddled, protected, paid, and encouraged, 
Princely pasha of my heart,
But what will happen when I’m gone?
I’d like to think I could reach out
From the beyond like God does to Adam
But I hate to think how often you will fall. 
You want to join me there, you’ve said. 
You’d rather not be alone.
I see your damaged liver in a pickle jar
As fair warning to other broken hearts.
I want to set you up for life on your own
But I’ve already given you everything I have.
Our is a strange love, a dependent love,
‘Til death do us part love.
You’d tasted independence, 
And it didn’t go well.
I was wounded and alone.
You needed me and I needed you
To believe in love again.
We are locked together 
Like stags with entangled horns.
I’d die without you and you without me.
A laughable Romeo meets Romeo sitcom 
If it didn’t have such a tragic end.