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Ralph Bruzzichesi Poem
He is an old Vet now, weighed down by the years.
He walks slowly with a limp, and has grey hair, eye glasses and hearing aids.
Ah, but there once was a day when he was young and strong.
A day when he raised his hand and swore to support the Constitution and protect
the people.
A day he stood erect, proudly wore his uniform and gave crisp salutes.
A day he shook his fathers hand, kissed his mother goodbye and went off to war.
A day he stood firmly and bravely against aggressive foes and did not falter.
A day he saw things a young man should not have to see.
A day he did things a young man should not have to do.
And day he wept over the graves of his fallen comrades.
Yes he remembers all these things.
He stands as the flag passes by in the parade and he salutes it as he has done many times before...
And he remembers.
Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2014
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Ralph Bruzzichesi Poem
On The Range
You are an old cowboy now.
Your bronco riding and rodeo days are over.
You now mostly drive a pick up truck or ATV instead of a riding a horse.
You drink you whiskey straight, and your cowboy style coffee black.
You don't smoke any more, but when you did you rolled your own cigarettes and lit them with wooden matches.
You got your tobacco from a white pouch with a yellow pull string that you kept in your shirt pocket.
You wear blue Levi's and a leather belt with a silver buckle, and white straw Stetson hat with
a woven white, black and turquoise hat band.
You wear cowboy boots with riding heels and a shirt with pearl snap buttons.
You keep a blue bandana in your rear pocket to wipe off sweat and act as a face mask in dust storms.
You have worn chaps, fixed a barbed wire fence, and know about droughts. blizzards and prairie fires.
You still ride a horse, can cut a calf out of a herd, and like your father before you own a Colt six shoot revolver and
a 30-30 Winchester lever action rifle.
You have heard stories of massive Texas Longhorn cattle drives up the Texas-Montana trail in the 1800 hundreds,
and when you do, you wish you were born a hundred and fifty years earlier.
Like you ancestors before you, you make your living raising cattle and enjoy watching the sun come up.
Long ago you learned to appreciate the blue sky and openness of the high plains with its
yellow prairie flowers, purple sage brush and tumble weeds.
You have heard the howl of a prowling coyote, and the harsh caw of a magpie.
You have seen wild prong horned antelope, prairie dogs, cotton wood trees and,
beautiful night skies filled with a million stars.
Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2014
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Ralph Bruzzichesi Poem
The legion march quickly north,
armed with glaudius , pila, and, scutum.
Prefect Claudius Flavius was in command of the First Cohort.
Vanguard in the lead, flankers to the sides, rear guard looking behind.
They marched steady and strong under a blazing hot sun.
Each man weighed down with 60 pounds of armor, weapons, shield and rations.
They did not falter,
and they did not stop for water.
Such is the discipline of the legions of Rome.
At the end of the day they made their camp.
That night the equites legionis scouts found the enemy.
and the battle was planned.
The legion was up before dawn and prepared for battle.
The First Cohort, four hundred eighty men in all, marched to the battle site ahead of the others, and formed four maniples.
When the rest of the legion was formed,
Flavius commanded the First to move forward toward the screaming enemy.
They did not falter,
and they marched in good order.
Such is the discipline of the legions of Rome.
At the command of, " Iacere pila". they hurled their spears at the enemy shields.
At the command of, " Contendire vesta sponte" they drew their glaudii and engaged,
attacking the left flank of the enemy formation.
Armor and spears, swords and shields met in a horrible clash.
The centurii and optio shouted orders above the blare of the bugles.
Pilae were hurled.
Scuta banged against scuta.
soliders pushed, shoved, yelled and cursed.
Glaudii thrust forward in unrelenting, grim determination.
They did not falter,
and they gave no quarter.
Such is the discipline of the legions of Rome.
In the end the enemy line unraveled, and those who were left ran for their lives.
The equites chased them down.
The battle was hard fought.
The list of the slain was long,
and the lesson the legion sent was clear.
Those of the enemy that got way brought this message home.
The Roman legions are strong and disciplined.
They do not falter,
and they give no quarter.
Do not test the power of Rome.
Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2014
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Ralph Bruzzichesi Poem
I lit a fire in my fire pit last night,
It started small like most fires do,
At first it struggled to take hold,
Until it finally fully ignited, proclaiming its existence, and illuminating its world,
I stared at it and felt its warmth,
Its rhythmic, hypnotic dance captivated me,
Its crackling sound mesmerized me,
Its burning embers ascended skyward into the darkness,
Only to extinguish and fall back to earth as ashes,
In time the fire waned into soft glowing embers,
And like all living things, died,
Leaving behind only ashes,
Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2014
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Ralph Bruzzichesi Poem
Last Chance,
I passed through you many times and remember you.
You sit on the Colorado Prairie east of Denver at the intersection of two, two lane highways.
In the 1880's you were a stop along the great Texas Montana Cattle Trail.
You really came into your own as a child of the post war Forty's and Fifty's automobile boom.
The say you once were a lively little town made up of gas stations, motels, cafes, a general store, two churches and several homes.
Word has it, you got your name because you were the last chance for travelers to get gas,
food and lodging on their long treks to Denver and Kansas.
In summer, travelers picked cold Cokes, Pepsis and Grape NeHi's out of your gas stations' iced filled soda chests.
In winter, hot steaming coffee flowed from the silver urns of your cafes.
It was Fords, Plymouths, and Chevrolets that created you,
and it was Interstate Highway 70 that bypassed and doomed you
to whither and slowly die.
A prairie fire in 2012 caused by the sparks of a tire blowout finished you off.
Today you are a ghost town of burnt out hulks, abandoned buildings
and distant memoires.
Oh, Last Chance.
The stories you could tell.
Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2014
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Ralph Bruzzichesi Poem
The alarm sounds and calls their names,
To stand and fight the smoke and flames,
They don their heavy turnout gear,
To meet the flames and face their fear,
Driving trucks with red lights glaring,
Into city streets with sirens blaring,
They soon find a house on fire,
And lay lines they will require,
Fighting fire in a deadly game,
Streaming water onto the flame,
With pounding hearts they crawl through heat,
To find lost soles without retreat,
When the flames die and all are safe,
they drive their truck back to their base,
They wash it down and make it shine,
and neatly roll each water line,
They swap stories and write their notes,
and tumble dry their turnout coats,
They hang their gear upon the wall,
and wait to hear another call,
Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2014
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Ralph Bruzzichesi Poem
Winding lines of cars
Stop and go on black paved roads
Driving down the shore
Bright umbrellas pose
Sitting on a sandy beach
Lolling in the sun
The smell of hot dogs
salty air and creosote
Float in mid-day air
Little children play
building castles made of sand
near a deep blue sea
A delightful book
Floppy hat and Coppertone
Fill a summer day
A red setting sun
Sunburned skin and tires eyes
Tell it's time to leave
Tail lights glowing red
pinned against a blacked sky
Guide the way back home
Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2019
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Ralph Bruzzichesi Poem
An old man walks along a deserted beach in the pre-dawn darkness.
The is no wind and he can hear small waves lap onto the sand.
He stops, turns eastward, and gazes out into the blackness.
At the same time, 93,000,000 miles away, trillions of photons of light are born in a fiery sun, and are propelled through the void of space at an unimaginable speed of 186,000 miles per second. They race past planets, moons, asteroids, man-made satellites and space debris to rendezvous with the earth and the waiting old man who stands there waiting in anticipation, and sees nothing but blackness punctuated with dimly lit, fading stars.
Then, as the earth slowly turns he perceives a faint brightness creeping over the edge of night, revealing itself where the sea meeting the sky.
With time, the sky gradually transforms from black to a faint dull gray.
As more photons pour in, the dull grey turns to a dim orange, and then orange and finally yellow.
The color grows in brightness and intensity as more and more of the becomes visible.
The process is irreversible. The darkness is in inevitable retreat, and a vibrant world of color comes alive.
As he has done many times before, the old man stares at the wonder unfolding before him. The brightness and the colors awake his senses and stir his consciousness.
He closes his eyes and allows the glow to bombard his face and body.
He feels its gentle warmth and its promise of a new beginning.
He mutters a quiet prayer, and thanks God for the gift of a new start and...
another chance to get it right.
Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2019
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Ralph Bruzzichesi Poem
As waves wash in and kiss the beach,
I walk along the sandy shore,
Seagulls soar ore the sea's vast reach,
As waves wash in and kiss the beach,
I pause to hear a gull's loud screech,
and listen to the ocean's roar,
As waves wash in and kiss the beach,
I walk along the sandy shore,
Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2019
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