Tag: Al Ortolani

Four Poems by Al Ortolani

~ ONE ART ~ 4 Comments

Eagles on Live Cam

My wife is watching an eagle camera
set above an Ozark aerie. The eaglets
are pecking escape from their shells.
They are ponderously slow, but my wife
watches the breaking
as if she can help the young crack free.
It’s the mother in her, identifying
with the helpless, as if enabling
them to emerge as downy tufts, hatchlings
in a decades old nest of driftwood weave,
two puffs of hunger in light snow.
An empty nest to her is the echo
in the kitchen, chairs shoved in,
children flown from the breakfast table.

*

Bird Feeders in the Next Life

Only the squirrels visit the handfuls
of birdseed I’ve broadcast across
the top of the snow. I break down

an Amazon box and smooth it flat
under the dogwood tree, one of the few
spots where the snow is shallow.

I pour a small mountain of seed
at the tip of the Amazon arrow. Only
the dog visits, sniffs the cardboard,

the scent of sunflower. For Christmas
my wife gave me a smart feeder, one
that when put together correctly and linked

to the internet, keeps surveillance on
the birds. Currently, it’s still in its box
and pushed under my desk. Buddhists

say that we continue to return to the world
like cicadas, until the suffering of all
sentient beings has been sung to its end.

I have time to link up the new feeder,
before it’s too late. The snow
turning to ice, the entire lawn concrete

to birds, their small chisel beaks
as hapless as best intentions. I have
become a hero to squirrels. They
dedicate their largest acorn to me.

*

Oyster Dressing

Boxes and ribbons still litter the living room
although we have scooted them into piles,
some for saving, some for the dumpster.

Now that Christmas is over and the family
has returned to their homes across the city
I retreat to my little office at the back of the house,

the dog curled on the one-man bed snoring.
It’s a quiet morning, except for the neighbor
trying out his new leaf blower. We could

have opened a bottle of red wine in front
of the fireplace, talked about the children
and the grandchildren they in turn are raising.

We might have wondered about our parents
and grandparents, the oyster dressing, the apple pies.
The recipes we thought we’d remember.

My wife opens the bifold doors to dump
a load of laundry into the washer. It is
the sound we share when moving on.

*

Harley Davidson

Even after his death, my father needed
to visit his children. It was a given
that he’d show up at unexpected moments

as a cardinal at the window, pecking on the glass,
moving around the house from pane to pane
or filling the backyard tree in a hooded red flock.

We’d come to expect him, to relish whatever
message he presumed to send. My niece dreamed
he rode a motorcycle, a Harley Davidson
into her sleep, which was odd, and humorous

since he’d been a fan of knock-off Vespas,
the cheaper the better. To comfort her grandmother,
she told the story of the dream, the scooter

turned muscle bike. Her grandmother paled,
and handed over a Harley Davidson key she’d found
in Dad’s coat pocket. There were explanations,

but no secret Harley tucked away under tarps
in the garage. My niece kept her story private,
the key in her jewelry box. Years later,

Dad rode again into her brother’s dream
on the same motorcycle after his dog passed,
the dog on his grandfather’s lap, tail wagging,

tongue lolling like it did for treats. My nephew,
an emergency room doctor, a man of heart monitors,
the science of code blue defibrillator paddles.

*

Al Ortolani is a winner of the Rattle Chapbook Prize and has been featured in Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac, Ted Kooser’s American Life in Poetry, and George Bilgere’s Poetry Town. He was the recipient of the Bill Hickok Humor Award from I-70 Review. Currently, he’s a contributing poetry editor to the Chiron Review.

Alone in the Library Stacks by Al Ortolani

~ ONE ART ~ 4 Comments

Alone in the Library Stacks

One morning the sky turns to charcoal,
the wind gusting until the leaves expose
their silver underbellies. You crank
open the window and smell the rain,

the elms, the catalpas, the split melon
of summer. You are alone with
the forgotten books, Gandalf
in the Eddas, the whirling Sufi,

Madame B’s Victorian theosophy.
You run your finger along the spines,
read the checkout cards, the names
inked as if from a séance of fountain pens

and Palmer cursive. With the croon
of mourning doves, the drumming shower,
the window creaking on its hinge,
you click on the light above your carrel.

You puzzle over unfamiliar pages,
the Fat Lady as Christ in Salinger, the dung
beetle in Kafka. The day gone quiet,
the library desk waxing with possibility.

*

Al Ortolani’s newest collection of poems, The Taco Boat, was recently released by NYQ Books. His first novel, Bull in the Ring, was just published by Meadowlark Press. Ortolani, a husband, father, and grandfather, is currently entertaining the idea of becoming a hermit. However, his wife prefers the company of the neighborhood feminists, and his dog Stanley refuses to live without treats.

Two Poems by Al Ortolani

~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

Confetti Cannons

My favorite television anchor
takes cover below the media stage,
arms protectively over his colleagues,
the camera on its swivel,
the fountain, the hill to Liberty Memorial.
My phone begins to fill with texts
until I can account for my family, all
except for my oldest grandson. He’s sixteen
with a girlfriend at his side. I hope
to catch them jaywalking Pershing Avenue
towards Crown Center. Both
are athletes and can run without tiring.
They have drilled for active shooters
since grade school.

When my grandson learned to walk,
I let him climb the stadium wall
at the university. I kept my hands
around his waist like a belay.
I gave him a boost over the lip
so he could sit and see the field,
empty in November, a cotillion of colors:
green turf, white hash marks,
red and gold endzone paint.
Game papa, he said,
a bluejay, a crow, a late autumn bee.
I kept my grip on his legs,
his small gravity of muscle.

Today, in front of the television,
there is nothing to hang onto
except parade coverage, audience
running east, police running west
with guns drawn. My arms are not
long enough to reach him.
My hands hold a smartphone
without answers.

*

Cuban Missiles for Children

My grandfather frightens me,
building a concrete bunker in his backyard.
He fills 5-gallon cans with water.
My father donated a first-aid kit.

Yankee, my hyper-active dog,
is hit by a car. At the new school,
I walk myself to the playground,
and try to blend with other children.

They all have missile stories.
We make a game of hiding. One boy
learns to open his mouth so wide
that he can swallow himself.

Soon, he is just a mouth
on the blacktop. We kick him around
like a rubber ball. One day he lands
in the bushes and no one can find him.

The teacher is frantic. The boy
has been coloring brilliant rockets.
She carries his portfolio to the counselor
and they telephone his parents.

When the mouth is brought back
into the classroom, the teacher tells us
it is impolite to stare. Tight-lipped,
he colors flames on his missiles.

*

Al Ortolani’s newest collection of poems, The Taco Boat, was recently released by NYQ Books. His first novel, Bull in the Ring, was just published by Meadowlark Press. Ortolani, a husband, father, and grandfather, is currently entertaining the idea of becoming a hermit. However, his wife prefers the company of the neighborhood feminists, and his dog Stanley refuses to live without treats.

Peter Rabbit in Rehab by Al Ortolani

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

Peter Rabbit in Rehab

October ends
with a rabbit foot on
a chain, a keychain
of twirling leaves.
Nothing moves
except the spinning
on Farmer McGregor’s
finger. Peter Rabbit

is weekly in rehab
with a prosthesis, dogs
in the waiting room
leafing garden magazines,
watching the door
for his release. Peter
is slower today
than he was yesterday.
He supposes he’ll be slower
tomorrow. Without
his lucky foot, Peter
is just an old man
with yellow tennis balls
on his walker. No leaping.
No sudden turns
under the hedge. He needs

Beatrix Potter to turn
the page, to illustrate
an escape past
the vending machines
into the parking lot,
through the ornamental shrubs,
the spitting sprinklers, then home
past McGregor’s carrots.
Yes. It was always the carrots.

*

Al Ortolani’s poetry has appeared in journals such as Rattle, New York Quarterly, and Prairie Schooner. His most recent poetry collection is The Taco Boat, published by New York Quarterly Books in 2022. His first novel Bull in the Ring will soon be released by Meadowlark Books in Emporia, Kansas. He currently lives in the Kansas City area.

Stacking Dishes at the Lipstick Hotel by Al Ortolani

~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

Stacking Dishes at the Lipstick Hotel

The head dishwasher smoked like a kid with a plan,
flicking ashes, picking tobacco
off his tongue, explaining
his next best job, how this
was nothing
compared to selling cars.

In the evening, after the kitchen closed,
we were left alone with supper’s
stock pots and room service trays.
We played a game with coffee cups,
pictured the women
who left lipstick
on the cups.
We judged
the color, the full lips.
We took liberties,
imagined one of them the call girl
rumored on the 5th floor.

We kept the water hot, scalding, wore
rubber gloves, scrubbed fast
with nylon bristles, polished
with steel wool. With the sink empty,
we cleaned the drain trap, smacked free
the beans and pork, the gristle into the trash.
We dried, stacked pots,
dishes, tumblers, coffee carafes.

Tomorrow needed a start fresh.
The cooks
arrived before the sun, maybe
as the call girl was closing her door
I owned a motorcycle.
Home in minutes. Studied algebra
to stay clear of Vietnam.

The head dishwasher waited

for the police to pick him up. He was
witness to something protected.
Some nights I waited with him.
He snuffed his cigarettes

in a coffee can, kept
his eye on the corner, the neon
Open
above the bar. He never talked
about the names he could name.
I could stack dishes, keep
my mouth shut. Happy
with a motorcycle that went
nowhere special.

*

Al Ortolani’s poetry has appeared in journals such as Rattle, poetrybay, New York Quarterly, and Prairie Schooner. His most recent collections are The Taco Boat, released from New York Quarterly Books in 2022, and Swimming Shelter which was named a Kansas Notable Book for 2021 by the Kansas Library Association. Ortolani is the Manuscript Editor for Woodley Press in Topeka, Kansas, and has directed a memoir writing project for Vietnam veterans across Kansas in association with the Library of Congress and Humanities Kansas. He lives in the Kansas City area with his wife and Zen Buddhist dog, Stanley.

Entering the Auction Barn by Al Ortolani

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

Entering the Auction Barn

There’s no place left to sit in the auction barn.
One woman has her coat next to her on a chair.
She’s either saving it for someone, or keeping it
for herself as a safe space. A man with a wool cap
and a black Patagonia coat comes in out of the cold,
stamps his feet free of last week’s snow. He sizes
up the room, the auctioneer’s ring worker, holding
a flintlock. The auctioneer chants, hunting
for the first bite. The man, tilts the brim of his cap,
raises his hand. A trio of bids follow.
The man in the Patagonia walks to the woman
and leans to her ear. She moves her coat to her lap.
He slides the chair to the front of the auction barn,
motions to see the rifle. He examines the stock,
the brass lock plate, the frozen trigger. He shakes
his head no, waves it away. The auctioneer
moves on to the back of the barn.
The man unzips his coat, pulls it away from his chest,
and extends his legs easily into the aisle.

*

Al Ortolani’s poetry has appeared in journals such as Rattle, poetrybay, New York Quarterly, and Prairie Schooner. His most recent collections are The Taco Boat, released from New York Quarterly Books in 2022, and Swimming Shelter which was named a Kansas Notable Book for 2021 by the Kansas Library Association. Ortolani is the Manuscript Editor for Woodley Press in Topeka, Kansas, and has directed a memoir writing project for Vietnam veterans across Kansas in association with the Library of Congress and Humanities Kansas. He lives in the Kansas City area with his wife and Zen Buddhist dog, Stanley.

Two Poems by Al Ortolani

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

The Big Gray

I usually picture November
as the gray month. That’s not meant
to sound negative, since I like gray,

a soothing color, cool to touch, slightly
turned towards the inner voice, the indoors
of long nights, early suppers,

an old movie on Turner, reading
before the lights go out. In November
there is more time for sitting

at the window, watching squirrels
running across the top of the fence,
leaping from roof to limb.

With that thought, I am happy
to drink coffee with nowhere to go,
to forget the noise of bright flowers,

the rush to save, to put up tomatoes
as a symbol, a harvest ritual
if we’re ready, if we’re lucky.

*

Acorns on All Saints Day

You walk through the woods,
shuffling leaves like fallen days.

You see more through the trees
than you have since early spring,
the rise of hill, the spur of limestone,
squirrels nesting in high oaks.

Game trails reveal themselves
winding between branches, briar,
and windfall. There’s a place
for you in change, feathers

between trees, acorns
dropping like rain. A longing for
all you’ve loved reaches beyond
your farthest step, almost further

than hope, the moving sap,
the constant heartwood.

*

Al Ortolani’s most recent poetry collection, The Taco Boat, has just been released from New York Quarterly Books. Individual poems have appeared in journals such as Prairie Schooner, Rattle, New Letters, and the Chiron Review. He currently lives in the Kansas City area with his wife Sherri and a Zen Buddhist dog named Stanley. The dog meditates in a full corpse pose between treats.

Armadillos Sought for Leprosy Studies by Al Ortolani

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

Armadillos Sought for Leprosy Studies

The armadillo crosses rivers by expelling
the oxygen from its lungs, then sinking,
walks below the surface on the riverbed.
If the river is too wide, often the case,

it drowns, and is eventually swept
to the shallows where it bobs in body gas,
bleaches like a Clorox bottle, the buoy
of a jugline. Armadillos are migrants

with few skills beyond eating insects.
They are neither turtle, nor rabbit.
They leap into the air when scared, spread
their short legs, hiss. They can wander

into a campfire’s light and stand confused,
as if transfixed by their pointed noses.
Some are made into handbags, or taxidermic
baskets. At a farm auction, I got into

a bidding war with an old woman over
the only armadillo at the sale. As a teacher,
I used it in my classroom for holding
dry erase markers. Contrary to the chili

cook’s joke, they seldom end up in the pot
although ‘begrudged as Hoover Hogs’ in the 30s.
They are killed by rivers, but mostly by trucks
on state highways. We count their dead

as we drive through Texas. It would become
a game if we weren’t sensitive liberals,
woke to the small brain, the leathery shell,
the leprosy of the folks Jesus knew.

*

Al Ortolani is the Manuscript Editor for Woodley Press in Topeka, Kansas, and has directed a memoir writing project for Vietnam veterans across Kansas in association with the Library of Congress and Humanities Kansas. He is a 2019 recipient of the Rattle Chapbook Series Award. He has been a Kansas Notable Book recipient in 2017 and 2021. His poetry has appeared in Ted Kooser’s American Life in Poetry and in Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. His poems have appeared in Rattle, The New York Quarter, the Chiron Review, and others.