I recently wrote a poem about waves

and about Katsushika Hokusai’s great wave,

a woodblock print, nicely colored and believable.

In the poem I mention the waves of my childhood beach

called “Horseneck” beach and how the waves were

wetter than Hokusai’s wave which is understandable.

I also mentioned Horesneck surfers as a fill-in to the poem where

they really didn’t belong.

but their presence got me thinking about motion, about

what moves us from one place to another.

Hokusai’s tremendous wave holds a couple of long boats

paddling into it. these are “Oshiokuri-Bune” boats,

fishing barges, each holding a dozen or so riders.

the boats move as the sea moves and as the paddles take them.

this is like an escalator going up with multiple riders: they move

as the escalator moves them, but––

on the escalator, no paddles are needed.

inside the Buick Roadmaster, the mechanisms of the machine

move it forward but the road lays motionless and flat,

just like the paper holding Hokusai’s beautiful wood-block wave print.

what an amazing, wonderful world we live in if we know how to look.

USA! Out of North America!

                     -The Seasons-

––David Britto's family had money.

He was the best artist in 6th grade class specializing in crayon drawings

of Santa Claus and other religious notables.

In the parlor of his family's tenement sat a snazzy space-heater,—

one with a glowing mouth at the bottom displaying its orange fire.

It was bigger than the one we had and sounded like a gust of wind

when it started-up in winter. Ours clanked like an old jalopy.

––The Britto's space-heater seemed otherworldly.

Ours came from the planet it sat in.

A crooked aluminum pipe stuck out of its back, listing upward

and angled into the wall where a little flower-painted tin plate dressed

the wall's rough-cut hole of the intruding pipe.

In winter, a twin-handled kettle of water serving as humidifier, sat on top

for a practical, but unintended purpose.

––In the summer, my mother would alter the space-heater’s identity.

The big pot would be removed to be used for cooking spaghetti or heating the bathwater.

A fancy cloth with ends of fringe dressed its top and knick-knacks were placed there 

to jewel its crown along with a few chosen members of the family, who had their framed portrait photos displayed.

––Cousin Patricia, "Call me Patsy" who left the Convent as Novitiate

breaking the hearts of her mother and father in the face of their God

before the final vows, photographed in pre-convent civvies, made the cut.

––So did my sister at nine years, frozen in a graceful tapping pose

at the “Eugenia School of Dance”— an attitude that would follow her through life,

––And there was a colorized photo of John “Sonny” Cinquini, a second cousin, smiling broadly, young, good looking, air-brushed smooth and posing bravely in his sailor suit.

“Sonny,” assigned to a minesweeper in the South Pacific, tumbled down a flight of metal grate stairs heading to the ship's galley for a quick cup,— who smacked his head on the final flight, drifted deeply into coma for over two years then died when his brain drew its flatline

on the screen by his hospital bed close to home.

––David Britto's family had money.

But the summertime studio portrait photos sitting on top of his family's snazzy space-heater

looked like they didn’t have any stories to tell.

––Quequechan

                   

                    

 

                    -The Seasons-

––David Britto's family had money.

He was the best artist in 6th grade class

Specializing in crayon drawings of Santa Claus

And other religious notables.

In the parlor of his family's tenement

Sat a snazzy space-heater,—

One with a glowing mouth at the bottom

Displaying its orange fire.

It was bigger than the one we had

And sounded like a gust of wind

When it started-up in winter. 

Ours clanked like an old jalopy.

––The Britto's space-heater

Seemed otherworldly.

Ours came from the planet it sat in.

A crooked aluminum pipe

Stuck out of its back, listing upward

And angled into the wall where

A little flower-painted tin plate dressed

The wall's rough-cut hole of the intruding pipe.

In winter, a twin-handled kettle of water
Serving as humidifier, sat on top for a practical,

But unintended purpose.

––In the summer, my mother would alter

The space-heater’s identity.

The big pot would be removed to be used for

Cooking spaghetti or heating the bathwater.

A fancy cloth with ends of fringe dressed its top,

And knick-knacks were placed there to jewel its crown

Along with a few chosen members of the family, who

Had their framed portrait photos displayed.

––Cousin Patricia, "Call me Patsy"—

Who left the Convent as Novitiate

Breaking the hearts of her mother and father

And in the face of their God before the final vows,

Photographed in pre-convent civvies, made the cut.

––So did my sister at nine years,

Frozen in a graceful tapping pose

At the “Eugenia School of Dance”— an attitude

That would follow her through life,

––And there was a colorized photo of John “Sonny” Cinquini,

A second cousin, smiling broadly, young, good looking,

Air-brushed smooth and posing bravely in his sailor suit.

“Sonny,” assigned to a minesweeper in the South Pacific,

Tumbled down a flight of metal grate stairs

Heading to the ship's galley for a quick cup,—

Who smacked his head on the final flight,

Drifted deeply into coma for over two years

Then died when his brain drew its flatline

On the screen by his hospital bed close to home.

––David Britto's family had money.

But the summertime studio portrait photos

Sitting on top of his family's snazzy space-heater

Looked like they didn’t have any stories to tell.

––Quequechan

                   

                    

 

1.

my son is reading “Howl”

with four eyes

two are tinted dark-colored

two are frozen below the shutter.

2.

people are walking

the sidewalks prepared for them.

3.

I know the stars are behind the Sun.

4.

I’m impatient.

I want the drawing to be done

before I start to mark the page.

this got me into trouble in New Bedford.

5.

New Bedford, an old salt, went down

to the sea in ships of wood.

6.

this to make oil.

to make perfumes.

to grease industry.

these things from blubber.

7.

my heart aches at the closing door.

my fear is being among the same sort of souls;

blanched grey. all of the same mind.

suffering the same way without name tags.

8.

they call this Heaven,

once the back bench-seats 

of limitless two-door sedans.

9.

my son is done with Carl Solomon

and has moved into the Footnote.

 

                   

psalms.

I'm rich, some with less might say

and to some degree, warm-hearted.

maybe. it sounds distant. I don't know.

and not to nitpick daydreams, but

from time-to-time I've been known

to lift the head of God from the table

to the level of my eyes as if God's head

had eyes to see me.

my saints are ––

the liquor salesman on the road

and the inner-hatband stitcher

and my sister and my brother

and all my lost loves and loves lost.

if I bleed beneath the barber's

errant straight razor,

some might say I had it coming.

but when I die, the undertaker

will fold my arms, hopefully,

just the way I would have.

                  Manuel Alphonso writes:

Dear William.

What ever happened to

the “Woman in the Landscape”?

Well, Manny,–– she passed away.

She entered the scene and sat on the little stool

which I’d placed for her in the landscape.

I asked her if she would like some water

or a glass of vodka and she said: “No, thank you.”

She didn’t fuss with her clothing.

She didn’t ask questions.

She instinctively knew her mission.

I took out my fine point pen and a graphite stick

and began transferring her likeness to the page.

Eventually, I wrapped things up: “Well, I guess that’s it.”

She got up from the little stool, collected her twenty bucks

and vanished into the night like the angels do from our dreams.

                    midmorning overcast gave way

to low-lying clouds.

the breeze was a 5 knot

drift from the southeast.

a light surf broke at the shoreline

to the delight of waders and colorful

inflatable paddlers.

the forecast was for sunlight to break through

before noon with clear skies to follow.

nearby, a man found a nearly whole crab shell 

and washed it in the surf.

he used it to frighten the kids.

his wife yelled at him and the shell

disappeared from view of the family blanket.

from the chaos I considered their wood-woven

picnic basket and fantasized what was in it;

sandwiches. soda pop. juice. potato chips, bananas…

and when the day is done this family will change

from their bathing suits to more functional clothing

in the parking lot on the driver’s side of the car.

the doors will be open. the subterfuge is perfectly timed. 

for me, six days will pass before another trip to the beach.

it’ll be on that day when “Spindrift dream girl”

will walk across my sightline, alone and aloof and memorable.