Author

Tom Squitieri

Tom Squitieri is a three-time winner of the Overseas Press Club and White House Correspondents’ Association awards for work as a war correspondent. His poetry appears in several publications and venues. He writes most of his poetry while parallel parking or walking his dogs, Topsie, Batman and Melody.

Two Poems by Tom Squitieri

by Tom Squitieri September 11, 2024

written by Tom Squitieri

Cherry Blossoms That Do Not Fall 

i stand in the moonlight that fades 
for the morning 
to hear buoyant birds begin their songs
my wonderful coffee shares its smell with them
As it tries to reach you
the cool breeze touches my body.. 
I wait for you, and you warmer touch

That recipe for soaring smiles 
and scripts for dreaming…
classic beauties,
unique romance,
Paris and you

A free lagoon is 
good for the soul
With its private libretto

We need to kiss to share 
our creative magic..
even if we are laughing 
the entire time

Tasty offerings of mind
Words and touch
Twinkle in the best places
set the
day’s table.
Bright yellows
And shades of purple
Cheer the mind
The always dash of pink,
The sprint of red
Invite the good and banish the sour.
They create a bel canto of today
to make the gray a part of the  
palatable palette 
Overtaking and rescuing
the kidnapped grey
Soiled by the world.

More bold dancing 
In the moonlight now
You closed your faraway eyes
I dared to use my skin to lure
Them open

Yes, you know of that
mysterious quiet chant of distance, 
not quite a calling or awakening
I have talked of it before,
the lines of puzzle pieces sending
cries to other pieces in an attempt 
to come together and be whole.

They have come together, to permit
Me to stand in the morning sun,
hoping you will see me and come.
Join the flow and let’s go

Don’t dance all night because 
you will be tired tomorrow, she said.
 I promise I’ll imagine you drinking 
your morning coffee on 
your deck, she said.

Promise, the sunrise offers
Every morning.

The landscape is alive
My breathing is yours
Once again, the dreams of 
you touch my shoulder and 
gently rouse me awake. 
No words are spoken as 
you tell me 
you 
need me.   
Out of bed, up,
rushing to find you.  
I remain breathing hard.
The tinkle of the stars takes me to the door,
To that magical deck and its blue portal, 
where our vantablack waits for me.
As we share the same fire
Cherry Blossoms That Do Not Fall 



There

I will touch the side
Of your face first,
With the back of my
Right hand,
Smoothly
Gently
As I lean forward to 
Put my nose in 
Your hair to
Smell it
My left hand
Holding some of
It near me

I will stay like
That for a bit
No longer counting
Time.
I did enough of that
Waiting to see you.

There will be a deep
Inhale to send the
Tingle all through
My body
On the off chance
It was not already 
Dancing through
My veins

Only then will
I step back
Just a little
To look at you
Smile
And laugh.

My hands will
Drop to hold
Your hands
We can smile 
At each other
For a while
maybe go
For a walk
Giving side glances
And more smiles
To each other
As our feet
Float in our
Happiness 

it may not be tomorrow
but we will get there.
We have made this time 
our own

September 11, 2024

Two Poems by Tom Squitieri

by Tom Squitieri August 21, 2024

written by Tom Squitieri

Magic Drizzle

It was early in the Bosnia war
When the traverse between Belgrade and Zagreb
Was long, tiring, and without joy.
Then a kind editor told me to
 “miss” the connecting train
In Budapest, 
check into a nice hotel,
Use the credit cards
And first thing
Take a long, long, long
Enjoyable shower, he said.

After that
Go to the hotel bar,
Have a cocktail,
Then go back and take another shower.
Make this one a classic hot, soapy, indulgent
Crawl into crisp, fresh hotel sheets
Be restored.


So I did
It worked
Thus started
 my longest love affair,
That with a shower.


Many followed in many places.
There were the ones where I walked through
Frigid Kabul mornings to the shower room,
Where the water came and then pools of
It froze on the floor.
There were bucket showers in a variety
Of conflict areas.
Eye opening shock indeed, but 
Restorative in their own way.

The fun showers with
A hose and my dogs.
The ones in my 
Mornings, with a song and
A shave….and sometimes coffee.

In one way or another,
They all restored

And of course the outside shower
Preferably on the beach.
Where the water seems to splash more
The naturalness more true
The imagination more unbounded.
That is the closet to that inflection point shower
In Hungary.
I am sure there are a few more
Of those in my future.


Now, as tubes and drugs
Throw me off balance
I conjure up ways to position myself
 just perfect
On that odd chair 
In a sterile corner
And let that water find
Its paths to where I 
remember.
How a one time
Simple thing
Became the special elixir 
Thanks to a war
As I fight another one
To restore again.

They are all a far cry from
Budapest and Eva
(Snuck that one in on you)
Yet no matter where
Or in what manner
When that magic drizzle
Touches me, 
The moment, the next moment can begin fully.
I guard it jealously
So my flow of my life
Once again becomes that crisp
Mountain stream

Warranty

Darkened hallways
Say many things
With various stages
Of life and death.
Behind each door
Quiet gasps,
Distinct prayers,
The loud silence of
Those pondering
Their next hour

The hallways hear
And share
But only to themselves
As they take me to
The solarium at night

Blue streak skies now 
In the morning
A different tableau
From the
Usual palette.
I look but cannot
see my sky.
I wonder if my sky 
Is looking back,
Straining to find me as well.
I fear it and my oasis think I just left.
Left without saying goodbye.
Seeing the empty, sad
Writing table
As confused as my dog was
Who, actually, pulled back to see
again
As she left me.
I guess it is a good sign that
I worry more about her
Than myself

Does the deck mourn?
The kitchen yearn for
The smells of creativity?
And my bed, the recipient
Of my secrets every night,
Who always makes me feel better
Just empty

All of
My stalwart companions
My lifeblood

Perhaps the skies,
Like the hallways,
Have their own communication
And they know and just
Wait for my return

The silent halls are powerful
And humbling.
The walls pulse with
Their own universe.
For they lead
To recovery,
To uncertainty,
And to the next place

I looked hard before
I left to come here
For my warranty
And could not find it

August 21, 2024

COLUMNS OUR VOICE

Pentimento Fading (Changing Hues)

by Tom Squitieri July 24, 2024

written by Tom Squitieri

It was on my first visit to Europe, a college trip, and I was convinced that the woman selling chestnuts in Paris’s Place de la Concorde in 1974 was an old woman, who had smelled that steam rising from her roaster for decades. I took a photo of her that hung proudly on my wall; it kept my desire to return to Paris vibrant.

Years later, I returned to the Place de la Concorde. There she was, in what I think was the exact spot she stood in 1974. She looked just the same.

Except she really wasn’t. She had become old — the old I thought she was the first time that I saw her. When I returned home, I looked at the 1974 photo again and saw, for the first time, she had deep brown hair then — not the grey that I had “seen” before. She was young in that photo, that year, and I thought her old. I had never noticed the brown.

The canvas was the same, but the colors had changed to me.

Now, I am as she is. Still with my brown hair, dashed by some gray. But photographs from the past, those canvases in all forms, have returned to me these past weeks in changing hues.

Some people and events have faded away complexly, never to return except in memories, where the rainbows are of colors rarely seen in reality. Now, my life is full of pentimento — a picture hidden behind a picture — a still moment that somehow moves.

“The wind blows the hair tufts.

‘Softly, elegantly, invitingly

“It swirls my eyes to make certain

“The wind is not a true wind

“Just a murmur of movement

“A waft enough to move the hair

“Slightly.

“To call.

“Transfix

“Puff open…”

First come forth the “Toms.” Four of us with the same first name, once dashing war correspondents, certainly creaky now. The cause: our onetime stellar translator and fixer is visiting and we join her for dinner.

This canvas was far different from the first time we were all together in Bosnia, where there were no tablecloths, tasty cooked food, ice cubes, or wonderful wine. We reminisced and told of the fun and the bad, the nerves of steel and the nervousness of bravery. This canvas has aged well in the museum of life.

It was the first return that week to one of the many masterpiece canvases of my life. The colors this night were dramatic and flamboyant but in more subtle shades.

It was also a last supper, perhaps.

“Lean your head to the sky

“Close your eyes

“To smell and listen,

“Then open when the

“Morning’s music says now”

A few days later and it was a return to the first canvas, the college campus. Where the brush strokes for the painting that would frame much of life began.

I went back because this painting was fading very, very fast. Friends who I not seen since the last day of campus were dying. Hearing from their partners, saying how they had followed me all these years and “knew” I would succeed. How did they have that confidence, that surety in me, that I did not have? They did. Yet, if you look at the painting from the campus, it was hard to see them in that frame. They and others were part of a slide show that kept ending in a white blank screen with dust over the lens.

Now, the apparitions are desperately trying to help, or perhaps prepare.

The first night there, walking from one end of the campus to the far other side to my car, no one else was around. Not a sound, no movement. A campus frozen of all nature and life. It was stepping into an ambrosial parallel universe, moving through a door of the familiar to a blissful new. A graduation of sort, of life. A prairie of promise.

Only the statute was there. That of a coal miner eating his lunch while reading by the beam from his helmet light. He is from the past but knows of today and a beam of perhaps for tomorrow. The aspirations of each generation, a heartbeat for determination, hard work, caring, giving – he says all, and more. The elements have weathered him but not caused him to fade. I just needed to stand there and be reminded.

Graduation was in two days for the new guard. They have many canvases to fill.

I did return to Paris, one more time. I went to the Place de la Concorde. It, too, was unusually empty.

She was not there. And neither was I.

July 24, 2024

OUR VOICE

Two Poems by Tom Squitieri

by Tom Squitieri June 15, 2023

written by Tom Squitieri

The Plaza Bathed In Light
The immediacy of the moment
The excitement of tomorrow
Will I be there in your mind
At least?
I had my rough years 
I am done with them. 
So I speak with a smile
with constructed clarity. 
Starting the day with
The perfect thoughts
Playful desires
Unfurled touches of joy
Almost always
standing in the moonlight
Come for me.
Write me with any wishes 
They will spring to life soon
In words
And then, in more
Open up for me
as am I for you
I have solved the mystery


Boarding
She is not going to say
Come
But, I am going to let that
Airplane leave anyway
Stay in this city
Where she is
I will pretend she gave
Me a nod
To stay
A hint,
A finger curl toward her,
Or better yet
A smile that said
“Don’t be stupid,
Get here…”
She did none of those
Yet I follow
The war correspondent’s gut
Think of the music
We will make
The smells
We will share
The moonlight we
Will create
That 
I am certain
If she looks at me,
not her past,
She too will be certain
together we can find what 
we have long wanted
She is on my mind
It feels wonderful
The sad ideas are resting now
The emerge continues
Roads no longer are just long
Portals are there, and now I see them
And I am brave, as I was 
30 years ago
That flight to the comfort 
zone has taken off.
That is not my destination.
There is always another 
Airplane to board to fly away.
There is not another
One of her

June 15, 2023

OUR VOICE

Two Poems by Tom Squitieri

by Tom Squitieri August 11, 2022

written by Tom Squitieri

2 Deer Morning

It is clear that 
the morning is unsettled
Though all the pieces hint of familiar,
Harmony is wandering
A road of hundreds previous trips
this morning, undefined
Strange, gustatory swirlings
A different fog of permeation 
One appears 
on the left side of the calcareous road
Calm, knowing, glancing 
At me 
I wait for
It to nod
To okay my proceeding
as my halcyon eyes flood its spirit
the aura full stops
Ignites the hippocrene
Down more the mellifluous road
Just scantly familiar
Throwing myself open
To the impresario of the sky
the buoyant brilliant moon 
Keeping its secret sliver for just us
A second appears, 
Crossing in front 
Eyes look deep into me 
Speaking in silent deer tones
I listen carefully and intently, 
A piccola touch of touch
The only language that matters,
The only I need to remember
from the faint heart 
to this agro dolce roadway
They have come to me
Insisting that I dance 
on the stage of life, 
To share our 
rising smile in the morning
with our dreams,
leave ringing phones unanswered,
Fish for trout in our secret flow,
To start the summer fade
show the plummeting world 
grace and radiance 
That is reserved 
for only a few
And count the days,
For they are ending

l Sorriso Che Nasce Dal Tuo Amore

They bring me twigs now
And odd pieces of plastic
Am I to review each 
Before it finds the permeant just right spot?
Or is it just a form of sharing?
The birds and squirrels flocking from their
Nests to mine
Reminding me
Insisting to me
I am one of them
A different spring, this time
Strong storms that sooth
Wind and noises that warm the deep darkness
Still life shadows
Encouraging to share
Do not anticipate normal
Now, more dreams are uncertain in panoply 
To pull me deeper into their vast world
More intent they are, around the clock
Sometimes I see them
Always I feel them
They ask more and more
Almost insistently
Where is my secret weapon?
We know she is somewhere
They put me in a white shirt
Symbolic of the light that waits
As I meld into
A thin healing white beam
Emanating from a pinhole winking from the sky
It becomes a spotlight on the stage
Waiting for me to finally
Transform and begin
The sky scrambles,
Telling us not to hold back
The creative energy swirling in it
spirit animals are the conductors
It is magnificent
il sorriso che nasce dal tuo amore 
fa sì che anche le nuvole 
si trasformino in sole
The door is unlocked
Yearnings whisper from down the hall
Knowing of the pleasures you have
Not even dreamed about
We are born to be lovers
Unforgettable chapters telling me
 that now they
are finally
To be written
I am flawed but real
Find me

August 11, 2022

OUR VOICE

Two Poems by Tom Squitieri

by Tom Squitieri August 4, 2022

written by Tom Squitieri

Storm Surge

It forced me out of the dream
The storm that was a-coming
its passionate energy
claps 
meant to applaud us
As others sought shelter
A semi-rested body no more
Now full of energy.
Wondering why I had risen when I did
Now clearly known
Clearly 
The clock from the world
Quaked and my trembling excitement
Continued forcefully with its power
To add to the replenishment that was christening me
Zeus is reminding, then commanding
Storm surge to peel back
The cobwebs of sluggish 
Sweeter coffee to stir the next act
The overture has stopped
Confident in its success 
As this mark in time makes it clear
The other storms continue to rage
Now more ready
In a few hours
The sun will smile all over my body
Observing the details of the trance
From its penetration
The cup poised perfectly
balanced Borealis beauty
The knowing
Not yet, though. 
Now it is a new morning’s succor of darkness,
As it too awaits being greeted with 
   your beauty,
   your allure, 
   your mystery 
and my fully, fully awake dreams of you
true mate, and far for the moment
So only moonbeams caress me as I drink my coffee on the deck
It's a lovely morning. Soon sunshine 
will hold hands with the shadows.
No, no, it says.
Don’t change anything
To hear you sing
The birds defer, say go ahead
As the green aura finally embraces me

Peering

The moment when I feel just you
Everywhere
far away in truth, 
Flush next to me in 
My wishful reach
You know where this is
The dark sky presents
Its privileged canvas
To me
Peering for your
apricity 
A gray catbird,
Atop the dense, tangled thicket,
insists in his long song that,
For me,
you bestow transmuted illumination
Fill the lacuna
Pierce the impenetrable
Release the primaveral dazzle
He knows wisely all that is
Holding me back
Our true moons are
Never the colors
That the timid imagine
Nor do they ever know
Smells of a hopeful
New day

August 4, 2022

pexels karolina grabowska 4197444 1 scaled

OUR VOICE

Three Poems by Tom Squitieri

by Tom Squitieri December 1, 2021

written by Tom Squitieri

The Rutabaga Would Not Cut 
Two pieces said no
They would not go
In the dish
Without the onion
Or their secret spice
The taste remained
While we wondered
What they would bring
Their secret smiling in silence


She Won’t Say Yes
She waits, knowing
There is one person only
Despite what all the others think
And, slowly, she will share
She never thought like that before
Never of someone like him
He can’t be the one
Until one moment
She decides,
He is to be there
Now there has arrived
Do not change your mind
Take me fully


Red Nose Mystery

The river knows 
the mood 
your truths 
even if we hesitate 
on shore
lure me in,
and I shall smile,
waves of my joy
wait eagerly for
you to splash 
in them.
if we are lucky,
we learn how to let 
go of most
grasp what is for us
A little light 
Found me
This shadow morning
shoulder smolder 
footloose and fancy-free once
Now without footing
Morning quiet 
Loud in good energy
I stand in the shadows
waiting 
for you to call 
me to you

December 1, 2021