POEMS FROM A PENWAY NOTEBOOK
BY
ROBERT WALLACE PAOLINELLI
I
LOOK ALIKE TOO LATE
I saw a young woman today;
her face was so familiar
For a moment I was shaken.
No, how could this be?
Had it been the one I
thought she was, she would
now be a grandmother.
It's so easy to fool one's
memory.
II
A full belly and
a satisfied palate
are better than
memories of
former repasts.
Life in the present
is ever so much more
satisfying.
III
In my youth I
used to write long
love poems for my
sweethearts.
When I was married
I wrote poems for my
wife.
After my children were
born, I wrote them
poems.
Now, fifty four years old,
I still write poetry
but for no one in particular
IV
I don't like super
patriots; they only
believe in blood, lust
and tyranny.
These super patriots
invoke God to give
them strength to
overcome their enemies.
I am an enemy of
the super American patriots.
But I don't invoke
God to help overcome
those who would chain
my mind.
They would kill me--and
others because we do
not invoke God to help
us kill enemies.
V
There was a time in
my life when my
innocence blinded me.
As I grew older my
blindness diminished and
I was able to see
that my innocence had
fooled me.
Maturity gives one
great insight into the
foibles and deceits of the
human condition.
Alas, I think I prefer
innocence.
VI
I miss an old
friend who has
been dead for
many years.
I visited her grave
several years ago,
but I was over come
with emotion and
wept over her grave.
I never went back.
Today her image came
to me and still I
wept. There is no
end to my mourning.
VII
The moon is my best
friend. I have never been
disappointed by this old
friend.
It gives me light and
poetic inspiration. I
can talk to the moon
and it listens, but never
judges. A man couldn't
have a better friend.
VIII
I have been living alone
for many year.
At one time I had a
family: Two sons, a
wife, a house, even a
small business. That was
many years ago.
At first my renewed bachelor's
life was not easy; I fit well
into domestic life.
Now I am just
a little afraid of
such an intimacy,
Living alone does have
its good points; but it
can make one not want
to give it up.
IX
Once I believed in chance
and co-incidence. Gradually,
however, I concluded there is
neither chance nor co-incidence.
Yet I do not believe in
predestination.
I have no definite idea
of why things happen, but they
are not predetermined. If
they are we have to ask:
By whom?
There is no proof for a
god or gods; and there is
no winning argument one way or
the other to settle the
question.
So things don't happen by or
through the will of a god or
gods,
either.
How do I know this?
I offer no proofs.
It is that I just know--
which is just as good
as chance, co-incidence,
predestination, god or gods.
X
A beautiful, modest,
soft-spoken woman
came into my life.
I was smitten by her.
I could spend the
remainder of my life
with this woman.
But she is now gone.
She left last night and
by this time is
three thousand
miles away.
The mystery of why
people come into my
life and that they go
away will ever be a
mystery for me.
XI
And the dream.
The dream and
only the dream.
Wisps of it as
I stand amid the
cacophony of five o' clock
traffic. Ah, the
diaphanous images float,
tarrying for a moment
in my mind's eye.
Ah, I forget the
world and its noise
and the bus transfer
in my hand flutters
indifferently to the
ground as I stand
on the street corner
jostled by the rushing
crowds hurrying across
the intersection at the
command of the lights.
For a few moments I
stand alone: One man
with the remnants of
his last night's dream
overwhelming him.
The clash of sirens
and diesel engines.
The fire department
hurries across the
street. My moments
of left over dream
bliss shattered, and
I am left alone with
a memory of (oh) such
wondrous and mysterious
things and events.
A crowd gathers once
again at the corner. I
am brought back to the
world and the exigencies
of the pushing throng
dragging me off the
curb and across the street.
Just another automaton without
a bus transfer.
But the dream...oh,
the dream and the
dream and the
dream.....
XII
Waiting for a woman
who may never
show up.
I wait for her
every day. I have
been waiting for
her for a long
time.
How long? A long
time. I know she
will show up. I
just don't know
when
Nonetheless,
I wait for her.
Why do I wait?
Because I love her and
she loves me.
We, however, have never met.
XIII
Baking bread.
Ah, the smell of activating
yeast and the combining
of salt, oil, water:
A holy trinity.
The yeast bubbles.
The flour combines
with the moisture
into a living mass
of potential life.
Strings of gluten
appear with each
beat of the spoon.
Baking bread is an
act of creation.
XIV
It seems that park
pigeons are always
hungry.
No matter how often or
how much they are fed, they
keep coming back for more--
just like people.
And like people, pigeons
crowd around the tossings,
pushing one pigeon or another
out of the way, greedily
pecking and swallowing
what they can.
Physical form and
function aside,
pigeons and humans have
much in common--
except a pigeon can
never harm a
human being.
XV
Birthday Poem to
Myself
November 3rd
Fifty five and still alive.
Still a struggling
writer and poet
who is broke.
Divorced many years
and my kids far away.
What can I do?
The world is mad--
and I continue.
I see injustice and
greed and war and
hate and poverty
all around me, but
I am helpless to
stop any of it.
A poet with boxes
full of poems no
one wants to publish--
but I continue.
I love life in spite
of every thing.
That's important
for this day.
XVI
Birthday Poem the Second
A soft autumn
day and I am filled
with the joy and
mystery of life. Were
it otherwise, this would
be a sad day.
Having been born
put me on the path
to physical extinction.
But I don't care. There
are yet flowers, poems,
music,loves
and unknown
pleasures enough
waiting for me.
XVII
How empty is
my life. Empty
because my heart
is full of love
yet no woman to
whom I can
give this love.
I have love and
compassion for all
creatures; but in a
secret compartment
of my heart sleeps
this special love
for the woman with
the key to that
secret place.
Come, beloved, come
with the key and
release this sleeping
love.
XVIII
Singing the same song at
the same time: That's an
indication of being
in love.
Singing out of key and at
different times: That's an
indication of extreme
disharmony. There's no
love there.
IXX
There can never be a time
when the possibility of
loves does not present
itself. To deny this
is to be cold-hearted and
unwilling or incapable of
loving.
There's no great secret
about love, being in love
or the possibility of love.
Love is plain and simple.
Be open to love; be kind
to love; never abuse it;
use it judiciously and
it will always treat
you fairly.
When love is cold, keep it
warm; when love is hungry,
feed it; when love is
thirsty, give it drink;
when love is over-heated,
keep it cool; when love
is tired, let it rest;
when love is dead,
bury it without rancor.
After an appropriate time,
love will return. Repeat all
of the above and love
will always be
with you.
XX
Alarmed by the insensitivity
of her materialistic words
and dollar sign eyes, I
fled her midnight apartment
without regard for the
down pouring rain and lack
of an umbrella. I missed the
bus. I was wet, cold, a little
sad--but at least the mask she'd
worn was torn off and I was able
to see she was not the woman she
pretended to be, but just
another
matrimonial real estate agent
with a deceptively sweet smile.
XXI
She'd just move to San Francisco
from New York.
Aside from a few acquaintances
at work, she had made no new
friends.
Then we met. In so
many words, she told
me she was lonely and she lead
me to
believe she wanted to see me
again.
She gave me her particulars without
my having asked--although I was
going
to before we parted.
But when I did call her she had
to
be reminded of who I was and
where
we'd met.
Apparently she suffered from
amnesia.
XXII
I'm a man alone. No
special woman in my life.
"Special" is the
key word. Of the millions
of women in the world,
there must be one for me.
I'm a good catch. Were
I a woman and I met me,
I would jump at the chance
to have me in my life.
XXIII
I appreciate my standards and
expectations. After all, if I
am willing to spend the rest of
my life with a woman, I need to
be particular about the kind of
woman
I want--and I hope that she would
feel the same way.
XXIV
I sit and wait
for eternity which I
know will never come
in my lifetime or any
one else's--yet I wait
because there is nothing
else to do. If I wait
at a bus stop long enough,
a bus will come; I get on and travel
some blocks, but eventually
I must get off.
Waiting for eternity is not like
waiting for a bus ride.
XXV
Every time I pull a match
across its smooth striker
and hear the pop of ignition
and see the flame
come to life from the tiny
match head, I think about
the struggles of our remote
ancestors striking
rocks together for a spark
or rubbing wood together
to create fire. Our ancients
understood physical laws
without science: Where there
is motion there is friction;
where there is friction, there
is heat.
I sit here and have no
problem with creating fire.
How much easier is my life
from that of my early ancestors.
Yet they had an innocence I lack.
So I ask: Who is better
off--books of matches
notwithstanding?
XXVI
January 1st 1996
First day of the new year
with a bright sun on my back.
Ah, how I appreciate the sun's warmth
on this day.
After 365 days, this new year
will be old and end.
But, ah, the sun is
ever with us.
XXVII
11:49 A.M. Musing
With a hot coffee and
cigarette, I sit outside
this
cafe musing. Daydreams
are the stuff of a poet's
life; they are what makes him
a poet. Fantastic things and
situations are the meat of
the poet's meals. Sitting
here, a little broke, but
'happy, I imagine myself a
very rich man spreading his
largesse to those in need--
especially all my friends who
have been struggling artists
for many years. The flight
of the muse takes me to
far places, exotic places
that exist only in my
imagination.
I am the only person to ever have
visited these far off lands.
They exist only for me.
I cannot take
anyone else with me; therefore,
I am a solitary traveler--but
I don't care. The poet is
ever used to solitude--even
among throngs of people.
Musing of a beautiful woman,
a wife of extreme grace and
charm, a living muse to
comfort me when the tribulations
of the human condition hang
heavy in my heart;
and she, my wife, my friend,
my lover, my refuge, takes
me into the warmth of her
arms and transports me
to that special place in
her heart and I am made
free of burdensome thoughts.
A! An eighty cent cup of
coffee, a comfortable chair,
a notebook and pen--these are
the riches I have.
XXVIII
Through the fog a hazy
sun; cold winter's day.
The wind blows; more fog;
the hazy sun is covered.
The wind blows; ah, bright
sun' I feel its warmth.
The wind blows; a hazy sun;
cold winter's day...
THE END
San Francisco, 1994-95