Caffé Americano?
Latte Monterosso?
Macchiato? Cappuccino?
Possibile decaffeinato?
Oh, oh, the coffee dilemma (Italiano).
Not a problem for the caffeinated native,
ordering like his Ligurian grandpa,
sipping at the tiny table, contemplative.
But the Chicagoan, truly foreign,
fumbling his euros like florins,
gesturing, grinning, per favoring,
wanting only decaf for ailments boring,
cannot convey the essence of the question,
and here’s why:
For all her caffé history
decaf is a mystery that Mia in her caffé bella
doesn’t care a prayer about, hoping
for intelligenza from this agitated tourist,
this single-lingo singularly nonitalian fella.
Bio of Charles Kouri
Charles Kouri is playwright, lyricist and producer of two full-length musicals, REBEL and 24WORDS, which feature stories and original songs inspired by the Equal Rights Movement. The shows have been produced in Chicago and Washington D.C. and most recently performed at Steppenwolf, as part of the theater’s Lookout Series. He recently began writing poetry and is publishing 304-Days-With-3-Days-Missing, a series of 301 poems written during the pandemic. Charles is also a freelance journalist, marketing communications writer and author. He lives in Chicago.
this day
this whole day was raining
this whole day was cold
this whole day was drifting
this whole day said no
this whole day said stay away
but i could not shake its hold
i was waiting for tomorrow
looking out for more
but this long day just let-me-be and everyone i know
so someone wrote a story
someone wrote a song
there were people making time for people
they don’t even know
this day sure had a wisdom
made the most of rain and cold
the day became a wonder
now i’m sorry to see her go
the prints of a dance
taking a step-back
as the dust settles
from a cliff collapse
revealing three-hundred-and-thirteen-million-year-old
fossilized tracks
described in a cold, distant and detached
two shelled-egg-laying animals, passing
at different times
along the slope of a sand dune
upon a telescoping closer,
the prints express, paws in a primal dance
the distinct gait of tetrapods
four legs, step to prance, telling the story of ice-forming
as the norms, then gorges tore
into the unspoken for
and the sky tugged at the shores
raising tides for the deep to climb
fins to limbs,
as sharks roamed from the ocean floor
to meet the beasts upon the plains
to tear apart a fallen star
and set their prints with claws and pads
raptured in a primal dance
Bio of Paul Kachoris
I have self published my book of poetry:
“Unmasked: Poetry of Self Expression”
Please see my website: www.paulkachoris.com
Anguished Souls, Eternal
A Zig-Zag “agonia” highway.
Memorabilia strewn along the way.
Menorahs, skull caps, faded photos and the like,
paving this Royal Roadway To Remembrance.
And at the end—a cold pit, built in reverse,
soaring up into the black sky.
There—hundreds of thousands of scarlet,
agonized faces,
weeping blood tears.
Countless multitudes draping its inner walls;
their images, indelibly being seared into our souls.
Lamenting, once and for all,
our memorial dirge:
How helpless each one was,
when the “Grim Reaper of Hate”
threshed down entire wheat fields.
Paul J. Kachoris
November 17, 2018
A memorial poem dedicated to The Jewish Museum, Berlin, Germany
Nine Holes Near Krakow
Nine holes near Krakow,
laid out in the countryside
like soft pieces of cloth,
far away from the hustle & bustle of
the Rynek Glowny,
a quiet gift of barely rustling
grass, trees and sunlight,
filled with no-one but
the sleepy golf-pro and
the talkative young cab driver
who drove you to this
Nirvana-like place
in the little village of Ochmanow,
nine holes of the sweetest
solitude as you trudge from
shot to shot, up steep hills
and down the backsides of
others, following the swoops
and curves like a map of your life,
contemplating each shot
like a poem, or a lover’s sigh,
surrounded by gorgeous
farmland, red-tile roofed houses,
and occasional distant puffs of
chimney smoke, you swing
and feel in harmony with
the earth and the birds cawin
“dzien dobry” (good morning)
overhead, while the groundskeeper
mows the fairway grass at a steady
humming pace, you look at
the clouds and the horizon
and think of your family
and wish you could share this
magnificent inner moment
when time stands still
and it’s just you and the ball
in a manicured Garden of Eden,
thankful for all you have
and hoping you can pass on
this passion for a sport
and the outdoors to your
sons, so they, too, can
feel the joy of one-ness
in places like this,
where Kings once hunted
and deer roam free, baffled
by the man who smiles
and stares at the ever-lightening sky.