25.

photoart: ralph murre

25.

by Charlie Rossiter

Some mornings it’s so cold

the car won’t start on the first try,

or the second, or the third.

In youth, that made me

hit the dashboard.

Now I simply sigh

go back inside,

take out a book,

get on with my life.

~ previously published in Winter Poems

   (FootHills Publishing)

Last Poem

Last Poem

                        (for Jim Hazard)

by Charles Rossiter

Could this be Jim's last poem

here in the Calendar?

Oh Boy Is It Snowing,

a poem full of energy

with a touch of humor,

so like him

complete with an exclamation point!

And there are parentheses,

in fact two parentheses,

or is that called two pairs of parentheses?

I'm not sure, and a couple of

Emily Dickinson-style dashes

in the final stanza.  He often

mentioned Emily.  I like to think

he'd be glad somebody noticed.

~ prev. published in Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

Blissing on the Season's First Snowfall

photo: sharon auberle

Blissing on the Season’s First Snowfall

by Charles Rossiter

I light a morning candle

and lift my cup of espresso

the hiss of the old radiator

purrs to me like a friendly cat

I lift my cup of espresso

and wish a silent wish

blissing on the season’s first snowfall

listening to the hiss of the old radiator

the kiss of morning espresso steam

rising to disappear in pearly air

outside, snow falls silent as a stalking cat

the candle flickers in columns of warm

air rising, I lift my cup of espresso

to the single silent wish, to always

and forever to this much love my life.

~ first published in the Paterson Literary Review

Our Way

cover art: emmett johns

Our Way

by Charles Rossiter

Outside the American dream

we haunt highways and streetcorners

through dirty blues and doo wop days

barrooms and coffeehouse nights

we search for friends, for truth, for love

on feather beds and oriental rugs

in dim cafes

barefoot on burning sand

we raise a glass

to electric skies gone crimson

we honor the days, the times

the ways of ancestors long gone

     who made us who we are

          who we are

~ previously published in Back Beat

   1^st ed. (Cross + Roads Press)

   2^nd ed. (Fractal Edge Press)

At the Poetry Party

photo: ralph murre

At the Poetry Party

                                    (Day of the Dead, 2001)

by Charles Rossiter

allen ginsberg was pumping his harmonium

and trying to sing the blues

kenneth patchen was issuing proclamations

and flying paper planes around the room

with wings made from cartoons

emily was there in a new white dress

raymond carver chain smoked

in the corner with tess

who had a dispensation same as me

to party with the living dead

sylvia wrapped her long dark hair

around her little finger

muttering about her dad and ted

anne sexton talked to maxine on her horse farm

with the phone held tight against her head

bob kaufman didn’t say a thing

rexroth and the frisco crew

bantered about the beat invasion

james laughlin sipped his wine

and chatted with a group of women

jack k. took notes in pencil

with his bottle in a bag

and the cats from the new york school sat back

and played it cool, they only drank a little

more than william carlos williams

and walt whitman who knew

they had a certain something to maintain

as father figures for us all which brings us to

gertrude stein who sat and sipped her wine

complacent as a rose without a name

without a name

without a name

without a name

   without a name

~ previously published in Whetstone

Listen

cover art: emmett johns

Listen

by Charles Rossiter

I'm the voice of the old ways
that can take you back to the days
of grandparents when things were
one telephone and one tv set
per household, wringer washers,
78rpm, ice boxes, victrolas
and people who owned cars
were on top of the world.

I'm the voice of the unpaved road
dusty, pock-marked and ribbed
by spring rain, I can take you places
the long straight interstate
never imagined where the air is clear
and the woods are deep,
places that make you want to
throw your head back
look up at the stars
and breathe.

I'm the voice of the front porch
where you can sit sipping iced tea
and talk to the neighbors
and your children, about nothing
but the day behind you
and the night ahead
as the world slips by.

I'm the voice of your own music
that doesn't need an agent
or a stage or even a microphone.
I'm the song inside you that talks about
where you've been and how you feel.
I'm the high note you can't quite reach
but sing out anyway, loud and long.

I'm the voice of the hearty handshake
the arm around the shoulder
the straight-forward look in the eye
that says hello friend, we're here together
you and me, let's enjoy it
while we can.


~ previously published in Back Beat (Cross + Roads Press)

at a hip east side restaurant

at a hip east side restaurant
. . . . . . . . . . . . (Milwaukee, 2001)
by Charles Rossiter

where the grains heap high
. . . . . . and dark meat is taboo
cell phones twitter softly

. . . . . .the clientele is
multi-racial tolerant, straight
gay, lesbian, east side liberal
middle-class,

. . . . . . . . . . . .the waitstaff
are caucasians in uniform
LL Bean khakis
and blue oxford shirts
tastefully
delivering food and drink

. . . . . . . . . . . .a young black man
with a head full of dreadlocks
walks among the tables
with pitchers of water and coffee

. . . . . . .a gangly Chicano teen
with the Virgin of Guadeloupe
tattooed on his wiry bicep
circles the room to clear the tables
of everything
the customers have left behind
except the tips

everyone going about his
or her business

customers, waiters, busboys,

as if they had agreed beforehand
to be hip, blase, and
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . color blind


~ originally published in Thirdspace

LOVERPOEM

photo: susan deer cloud

Loverpoem
by Charles Rossiter

the basement kitchen
stood up
straight and tall
but you,
you stooped
again and again
getting out the
dinner things
like some great
descending
bird all
grace
and form with
eyes that see
forever
past the simple
solid things you
touch and place
upon
the table or
the roaring flame
with Buddha care
and reverence
you stir the
boiling pots
mix the secret
spices
take the bread and
place it on
the rack, stretch
and breathe and
call to me,
whose poor soul
is spotted
with countless
imperfections
to feast
and be cleansed in
your holy
candlelight

~ originally published in the Bugle-American