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Sometime around 1880,

I was in a tiny bathroom in Paris,

sitting on the “throne” trying to do my business.

This guy comes in asks me what I’m doing.

I say, “Isn’t it obvious?”

He says yeah, “But what about the way you’re sitting?

What the hell are you thinking about?

Stay right like that, don’t move. Let me make a sketch.”

Next thing I know, I see a statue that looks a lot like me.

Now for years and years,

they all call ME the thinker,

As if I am the perennial ponderer,

The serene symbol of soul-searching

And prodigious patience.

People still look at me in awe.

They feel inspired.

They make assumptions of me representing

Some combination of poetry, intellect, and wisdom.

As if my pose speaks to them in such important ways.

That my head resting in my hand represents deep and noble thoughts.

They don’t know about my dietary delights,

Or of my avoidance of vegetables of any kind,

Or my infatuation with sticky buns,

Or my time at the all night, all meat buffet,

Or my thirst for old fashion old fashions.

Yes, in reality, I was nothing but a gluttonous fool,

A notorious imbiber,

Shit,

That statue wouldn’t even be sitting there

If I’d just eaten a bit more fiber.

Some of you will not think this is remarkable

because you will lump this in with the overall sensation of smelling

and say, “Big deal”

But I went to my car the other night and I sat with my windows open

Just over and over again I noticed something exquisite.

Sure, I had previously noticed the blossoms of the plants and trees in my yard,

And I had remarked how picture perfect everything looked.

I had commented about the magical music of various birds, 

whimsical, melodic, percussive 

from the crack of dawn to the onset of darkness.

There may come a time when I can no longer see or hear.

For some reason this has occurred to me more than once.

But on this night it was all about these sweet smells,

which may make me sneeze, even to the level of embarrassment,

or as my daugther experienced from birth until 14 – a “tissue emergency

!” that may require a full box.

The fragrances enchanted me with the lightness with which they wafted through the air

filling me with a sense of hope that is the essence of Spring,

and a sense that this sense will not leave me.

If that means that the price to pay may be a dripping nose or something more messy and humorous,

I will take it and appreciate it, simply smelling, seemingly the most resilient of my five senses. 

69 years

And I think this will be my last year.

By all measures I am in good health.

Oh, sure, I wake up somewhat stiff.

I have arthritis in my hands.

But I walk three miles nearly every day,

And I stretch.

But I know my family history,

And I wait for the other shoe to drop.

So, I will take this year seriously and leave no stone unturned.

I will hug everyone I love whenever they let me,

I will give my wife the third eye kiss

no matter how many times she tells me it’s silly

And pushes me away.

I will smell each and every flower and sneeze with glee,

For death may take me, but I won’t surrender life.

So this will be my last year, but I am ready.

If I am 70,

I will review my thought process on my imminent demise

And rededicate myself in the same way.

After all, I may have to do so over and over and over and over again.

If so, so be it.

Life goes on, while death awaits.

Last Year

69 years

And I think this will be my last year.

By all measures I am in good health.

Oh, sure, I wake up somewhat stiff.

I have arthritis in my hands.

But I walk three miles nearly every day,

And I stretch.

But I know my family history,

And I wait for the other shoe to drop.

So, I will take this year seriously and leave no stone unturned.

I will hug everyone I love whenever they let me,

I will give my wife the third eye kiss

no matter how many times she tells me it’s silly

And pushes me away.

I will smell each and every flower and sneeze with glee,

For death may take me, but I won’t surrender life.

So this will be my last year, but I am ready.

If I am 70,

I will review my thought process on my imminent demise

And rededicate myself in the same way.

After all, I may have to do so over and over and over and over again.

If so, so be it.

Life goes on, while death awaits.

And I came upon

a random bunch of tiny

bright yellow flowers

A solitary

walk on the ocean trail 

A chilly windy

Gray rainy day with

Deer, the birds and the rabbits

All seeking shelter

But me with my socks

And windbreaker soaking wet

seeking something worth

taking a photo

I wipe my camera lens

And color my day

With unexpected

Blast of mellow yellow hope

Life is now lighter.

I

The osprey that flew in a circle near Aunt Carrie’s,

While I walked my young children down the small path in between the restaurant and the night club,

On the same day I saw what I think was my first red-winged blackbird.

While it may not have been my first, I know it was my children’s,

As such my thrill was genuine, as was theirs.

And then we spotted the Osprey

Circling as if, we thought, it had nothing at all to do,

Just as we were seemingly wandering aimlessly.

Suddenly it darted down at top speed,

Perhaps 50 miles per hour.

We all noticed.

It rose from the water with a fish in its mouth.

One chance and one catch.

II

The ospreys of Chatham have at least two homes.

My family knows them well.

One in a residential neighborhood on the way to the Nature Preserve looks like a house.

It is perched on the top of a telephone poll and measures at least 8 foot by 8 foot.

We could watch them from afar and see the older ospreys feeding the young.

The other home sits at the Chatham Anglers baseball field on the left field foul line.

Both have been there at least twelve years.

III

I thought one looked like it had food in its talons.

But the other, I could see clearly, had a branch.

It then occurred to me, that both were carrying building supplies

To build a new home.

And, like the big baby I am,

I was moved to tears.

In what has often been dubbed the poorest city in Rhode Island,

we lived only two blocks away from the best Fish and Chips restaurant anywhere.

We dutifully observed the no meat on Friday rule every single week.

Our routine weekly sacrifice was eating a large order of Fish and Chips every week,

without exception

Nothing makes you appreciate the agony of hanging on a cross 

nor the resurrection of the body

more than fresh haddock deep fried in lard.

This was true even

though my single parent father no longer attended Catholic Mass,

and perhaps had not in years, except for funerals and weddings.

My older siblings and I would leave the third story tenement

to walk to Holy Family or Sacred Heart,

and then they would take to the woods to smoke cigarette,

their weekly ritual,

This left this six year old me alone in the pew with the assignment

of paying rapt attention

and remembering every word

of every reading and being prepared

to at least explain in simple terms the mysteries of Jesus Christ, the Almighty

that were explained from the pulpit. 

This so they could convince Dad that they actually went.

I cried when the rule changed to ONLY having to abstaining from meat on Fridays

during lent.

The uncertainty of what we would eat on Friday

was just one more thing

for my anxiety-ridden young self.

I could not think of another significant thing to do

to show my ever-developing devotion to my faith,

that would taste anywhere near as delicious.

If your memories haunt you,

We have EMDR

With dedicated effort

It can take you far.

If thoughts stop your progress,

We can help you rethink,

With CBT

So you don’t have to overeat or overdrink.

If you want to understand all the parts

That make you you we have IFS

For some this may work

Better than the rest.

But what if you’re sad,

With reasons to be sad so plain to see,

That bother you relentlessly,

Then we offer TLC.

I worry too often whether the water fowl that I am considering photographing is the

Wrong kind of Swan.

Contributors to nature photo club Facebook pages scolded to not submit photos of the

Wrong kind of Swans.

What was made clear is that these

Wrong kind of Swans

Were brought over to these shores by the well-to-dos to decorate their tiny ponds.

They didn’t fly here themselves.

It was explained that the

Wrong kinds of Swans

are invasive and make lives very difficult for birds who are the native to these parts.

So these swans, whatever the exact name is I cannot recall,

Are apparently the avian equivalent of personae non gratae.

I understand the issue that the

Wrong kind of Swans

create problems and that we should not honor them

with photos on nature club facebook pages, but I don’t think the

Wrong kind of Swans

Understand. Or care.

They just fly and float

And fool us amateurs into thinking

They just might be beautiful.

Iggy sang “I wanna be your dog”

And I won’t dare say that, or lucky for you,

I won’t sing it either.

But I will say some things about a dog’s life.

About how when I was a child,

The phrase “You treat me like a dog!”

Meant to be treated badly.

Most dogs I know, these days,

Have two or three meals every day,

Carefully prepared and lovingly delivered

With compliments such as

“What a pretty dog: what a good dog you are!”

And these affirmations come out of nowhere it seems,

Everyone on the street, everyone driving by,

Good dog! Pretty dog! Ain’t you cute?!?!

Then there is a willingness by the important people in their lives

To play with them, at least for a while,

every single day

And let’s not forget the belly tickling,

Again and again,

Every single day.

Belly tickling!

A Dog’s Life.

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I sat drinking my coffee.

My wife joined me.

“Funny as Fusco”

She looked at me and asked what I just said.

I laughed and repeated, “Funny as Fusco”

She told me she didn’t like the sound of that

and didn’t even know what a Fusco is.

I said, “A completely unembarrassed sharer of hilariously ridiculous recollections.”

She didn’t like the sound of that either!

Then I thought that I also want to have the uninterrupted intensity of Tony Brown,

The insistent incisive sensitivity of Mary Oliver,

The dramatic inspiration and immeasurable entertainment of Paul Szolsek,

The courage to speak plain truth pain like Joanne Johnson

And many of the attributes of so many of my wonderful poet friends new and old.

I know I can only have bits and pieces and some would not even stick.

I steal what works without taking

and keep all that I have already of myself.

I’ve got to be free, daring to try, or do it or die.

I’ve got to be me.