Today is the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. These photos of the actual Berlin Wall relics were taken at the Newseum in Washington, D.C.
This new collection of working class verse views life and growing up in New Jersey in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, and growing older in the 1980s, 1990s and the oughts.
ISBN 0982567707 ISBN 9780982567708
Anthony Buccino published two collections of poetry in 2008.
Voices on the Bus collects his poems written while commuting from northeastern Essex County to Jersey City, N.J.
One Morning in Jersey City collects his poems written in and around Jersey City and sitting along the Hudson River, often at lunch time.
His poems “Hands In Socks” was named Editor’s Choice in 2008 Allen Ginsberg Awards. “Ten Minutes” was Honorable Mention in 2009 Allen Ginsberg Awards.
He has written three books of essays based in and around Nutley and Belleville, N.J. He published two books of biographies of the hundreds of men from his home towns who died while in service.
As someone who grew up with the sounds of Peter, Paul and Mary echoing from the hi-fi stereo, Mary Traver’s voice always had a soothing way about it, even when she was singing about tragedy, injustice and pain.
For two hundred dollars an hour I can get a doctor to tell me why I talk to my dad more now than when he was here.
Maybe as I get older and closer to his age I’m finally seeing things the way he did or find some kind of comfort in talking to him from inside my head
Dad always got the tough jobs, you know, and I, I was the toughest job he ever had. I spat on people. They teased me. I bopped them with my sister’s baton. They teased me, and laughed at me. I bit them on the ass. They stuffed me in a garbage can.
So it fell to him to be the bearer of the swift and mighty blow to bring the little bastard to his senses or to render him senseless so he couldn’t hurt anyone for a while.
… But these decades later I find We talk more now and I have a different view of him and the years we spent together. I know he was winging it and I was a whirling dervish.
For two hundred dollars an hour I can get a doctor to tell me why I talk to my dad more now than when he was here.
Maybe as I get older and closer to his age I’m finally seeing things the way he did or find some kind of comfort in talking to him from inside my head
Dad always got the tough jobs, you know, and I, I was the toughest job he ever had. I spat on people. They teased me. I bopped them with my sister’s baton. They teased me, and laughed at me. I bit them on the ass. They stuffed me in a garbage can.
So it fell to him to be the bearer of the swift and mighty blow to bring the little bastard to his senses or to render him senseless so he couldn’t hurt anyone for a while.
… But these decades later I find We talk more now and I have a different view of him and the years we spent together. I know he was winging it and I was a whirling dervish.
