Train to Budapest from Munich(2007)

Blue shirt against black train seat
-reading paper in German
  helped figure out the mechanism
to no avail.

Without speaking, mute,
  point and turn,
          dipping a foot in
   the water,
Testing, feeling spongy,
                     soaking.

Still maneuvering the black seat,
  & blue, green, and white
         sit idly by.

Wah-cha-cha
  Wah-cha-cha, moves out
again.

Blonde, Brunette, Balding
--types standing by.
Cigarettes smoking,
   coffee steaming,
work has never looked
            so blessed.

Sunflowers cover the magazine's
   being held by hangers.

Earphones in, patiently
     aside an ashtray,
Bag over right shoulder
  opened to pass the
               time.

Lake or river passing by.
Green/Gray at the bottom
   of the valley, in the distance,
climbing up the hills
          with my eyes--
Coming to a speckle
           of white houses
                 orange roof.

Stone, and pastel,
           matte--
Clouds covering the countryside,
Overcasting the villages
    of so many,
minutiae, ants along
              the dirt mountain.

Cemeteries skirting the
        edges and chasing the
               pink to the walls--

The next house
     and so forth.
Lines of living dwellings
  separated
by the vastness that can be.....farms?
    or maybe just grazing land?

Snow in the distance
  spotting the ground--
with trees poking through
  like hair on the neck.

Crooked, cut-down, leaning
                  towards
                    the sun, and lack
                                  there-of.

Cabin surrounded by the shade,
  hidden to the passer-by.

Queer to see such history painted,
  with satellite dishes.
Modern amenities to make
  you feel more at home--
distance me from actual belonging.

Crawling by glass roof, must be
  greenhouses, tennis courts, and
        futbol field.

Red clay matching the pigment of the stones
       sheltering the majority--
          with chimney's one and all.

White rooms, closets,
  floors wet, dungy.

First stop, Salzburg station, trains across
   3 tracks look as tho they're red double
buses, with a green, army green car,
   right next to the window, flashes
of drafts, and worse times.  War times.

Times are now, with oil filling our gullets.
Oil makes the world go round', the world go round'
  the world go round'.

Cleaner air reserved
  for pure of heart, or soul,
     who cares?
                          Actually.



                

Looking back

We are shackled by our technologies.
An addiction most unbecoming.

At what point does experience outweigh
   our feelings?

Folded, softly upon itself, now
   It's time to be, here.

Fully aware of this moment,
   and the moments to come.

Rain beats down, 100% chance
   that I'll later need a respite.

Nothing scripted, yet, what?
   Hopes?  of something different?
But enabled to embrace the largest
   difference, It's better,
     and as it should be.

Buzzing, and creeping by,
   at 60 miles an hour.
Slowing to an ending of
  foot on pavement long been
   trampled by
    countless others.

Still new to this moment,
    this experience, it
WILL exist as just it is when
    you first meet a feeling.

Bridges crossed, and paths
  travailed.
Intersecting the lives of others,
   flipped upside down to show my world,
on its end, and theirs immediately upstanding.

Random pints of luxurious lager,
   soaking my
    throat one moment,
     to be in an empty
        alleyway the next.

Early morning rise to
  be left wandering/wondering
   yet again.

Thinking of these things that
   aren't here, shouldn't be,
    couldn't, can't.

Endless streets filled with strangers
  that feel like friends.

Waiting becomes the way of the day.
Without apprehension,
   that's reserved
  for the repetition of
    continuous daily routines.

Tom Jones is telling me I'm crazy.
I'm killing Tom Jones with my mind.
While simultaneously lip-syncing to Tom Jones.

Cafe Hail

Interrupted by a fast approaching storm,
Hail coming down the size of beads from
   a Mardi Gras necklace--

--fake candelabras on the walls of this
   brown cafe-still adds a bit of character,           
   most wouldn't look too closely just puff
   their cigs-and drink their bitter espresso's.

Peering through the looking glass
   above the bar
      I catch a glimpse of an older man,
          60ish, in a gray blazer w/black
              turtle neck.
I imagine this man in his prime
      sitting with a moleskin-
        poetry on his mind, and discussing
 the latest artist who has just hit the scene--
arguing his point that he has the technique, but
          not enough talent to go beyond the gallery
                where he had his show.
While picking up bits of other conversations
         that he'll write down once he's alone.
Putting his spin on the actual happenings--
Assuming the beauty of the language--rather than
   the ugliness actually portrayed.

But here, back to the now, his white beard
   probably smells of musk, and the lunch of beer
     he just had.

He speaks with a very deep tone, the
       Viennese Barry White?

I feel like I know this man from some other life,
     in some other time,
         perhaps we were best friends, or lovers,
           or I could have been his goat that he had to kill,
            to eat, to survive.  Which is why I don't
             make eye contact with him now,
               something inside me recognizes what he did, even
              though he had to, I'm not ready to forgive.

Old-timey radio sits on the shelf, you know the kind,
       with that antique radio grill cloth across the speakers. 
Dials made of black wood, its frame a faux rosewood.
Beside it is a modern stereo--so gaudy in its metallic
     plastic, and orange digital tuner,
         and buttons everywhere.

The clash of old and new--
   radio to radio-
   man to man.

Metro Sketch

This building of white surrounded by flags
Orange, lime-green vest, black pants w/ red stripe,
Navy blue hat w/ badge upon her head.
Standing watch over this structure that inhabits ghosts
   of dancer's past. 

Asian, alive, one after the other, coming to this rest stop
On a tour of the blue/green globe.

Waiting for the modern carriage,
Young and old make cliques of age.
Standing with their full bags,
 of all types, carrying what is most important to them.
Off white, one strap, black and gray, double strap back pack,
and here a simple person w/ only her jacket of gray and blue,
   hugging it to her chest, like it brings her comfort, like a child
      and her blanky.

Business suits of drab grays and browns and blacks.
Tourists with their, easy to move around, shorts and
   walking clothes, w/ sneakers that cost so much that they  
        Probably don't know they could have saved/helped 20 children
           in need w/ the money spent on comfort.

Phones open, to pass time.
Magazines read so no eye contact needs to be made.
Books open, looking down, then up, then down again,
  Probably will have to read the page again for understanding
    When they get back home.

Golden galoshes held in hand, w/ sandals of pink upon her feet.
  Prepared for rain, or just prepared.

Black hands hold the pole, held so tight the knuckles turn white,
Fuchsia pullover, w/ white strap from a brazier peeking out,
  in front of me, hair conditioned to the point of dryness,
   hairspray flecks the ends of her brownish, red hair.
    Looks back to see me staring, I avert my gaze in guilt,
       but shouldn't, but do.

Mouth agape black sock cap over dreads,
Yellow short sleeve, with silver long pants,
  down to below the hips, eyes slowly close.

Headphones and Ipods, drowning out the communal noise,
  so inside ourselves, shutting off the sound to the outside
   world, our world.  The one we live in, and hurt in,
and experience, and on and on, every part of us,
   is part of it, and yet we close it down,
Oh to be you with yourself as company.

Dirty blonde wants some shut-eye, lays her head against the
  grimy window, hair up, on top of head, looking peaceful
    amongst the melee of speakers announcing "Next Stop,"
      and children speaking in tongues of their homeland,
       professional males sneaking glances at the dirty blonde young woman,
          who could be their daughter.

Smiles, smirks, frowns, disdainful faces, sleepy, tired, concerned, concentrating,
 Each living within their minds.
Is the girl with the short sleeve, blue top, and dark blue jeans, reading a book,
  studying, thinking of me beside her? 
Is the woman with the green pullover having at least one thought
  of the child sitting across from her?
Are any of us observing our surroundings?
  Soaking it in, and creating/stereotyping our neighbors,
   or are we all contemplating death, and how we get there,
    or what's for lunch, did I make that call?
I hope it's all of that,  yet none of that.
And oh so much more than that.

3 POEMS

So this'll be a first for me.  I'm going to share some poetry with you, Filmland readers.  Over the years I've only let a few people see things I've written, so this is scary and new. And without further delay, here we go:

                                     
                                
                                              Written Life

                                      The novel, the writing of life,
                          Speaks in first-person.
                          The characters that help you along,
                          Write the chapters.

                          Theirs is a novel too, and I,
                          But a small character.
                          You see, we all have our own,                      
                          Books to write.

                          Don't forget that sometimes,
                          A character will be written-out,
                         Only to be filled with another,
                         One that will help write the next.

                         If we, by we, I mean me, could float
                         Above, and inside the head of many,
                         O' what wonders would be seen?
                         Would I find we're all the same?

                         That we are one of many, transcends,
                          Reveals the abundant layers of pages.
                                            


                                                     To Judge

                      Listening to judgements by others.
             When the bird tweets, is it a song of judgement
                       Passed?
             Should one create/make their own, when told?
                       Or pass it only from your physical moment of
                            introduction on?

             I'd like to follow the latter, for peace.
             Within me I will find the way I'll
                       look and see.
             Nothing is "forbidden" you, or shouldn't, by
                       a friend.
             Lest the judgement be turned back around
                       on them.
                                     

                                                                  My Box

         Explaining, or attempting to , my envisaged
            world,
     Takes patience, and timing of those exact beliefs.
          Through empathy and sympathy
                     a symphony of acceptance--
         
           Will finally be formed by that
             mountain of discarded intolerance--

                              Fear



That's all folks! Until next time