Going forth from dot to dot,
and lines to sect, and textured plat
– I feel her form in jazz – all that
time, melodious tone and scat.
And though the curve she’s wont and apt
to slide and clutch, her eye for voicing
taut and slack.
The tremble that I feel is naught
set side by side her ending thought.
And once the silence lingers hot,
Is she the pattern that I seek, dare not?
The church at the corner
of High Street and Orange
has closed its doors, and will be
torn down.
Peeling away the veneer of eternity
from man-made totems.
Perhaps, like its neighbors,
the touchless car-wash and
the auto lube- each seeking to
cleanse and repair brokenness – it suffered
from poor accessibility
from the main road
and people were not induced
to stop over.
Maybe it missed a key tenet
of going – even down the street
or across the tracks- to share
a moment.
All this – it makes way for the new road project
and adds extra lanes to this junction –
so that people can travel
to and fro,
but never have to stop.
Or perhaps, they will install
a roundabout – the evensong of
souls that move continuously
through the intersection
on their way to someplace else,
never noticing the the brick
wall that faces the highway.
In praise of pewter and braids –
and time that fills the empty spaces,
my songs carry with them
faces of blue, confiscated from clouds.
I imagine them as downcast-
bent as the newly emerged jonquils
under a storm.
Forlorn, as an abandoned
patch of last season’s snowmound.
And roiling with the murk
of runaway rainfall and laced
with mud.
Somewhere, burgeoning
behind the surging somber
lies her bronzing sun, polished
and rose umber, attempting to gleam
during the hidden moments of today.
To string a harp requires some skill,
nimble touches, and a willingness to grasp
and hold resolute while tightening.
Or to be astute with numbers, theorems-
strings that interweave among
the axioms – truths anchor,
reasons believe.
The twine that twists and loops
as you create, with hooks and pins
to overlap and interplay.
A line to slacken and release
a toy, only to tighten and recall
its track, returned with joy beguiling.
Or words that link by sound
or phrase to sum-splice and describe –
inspire, perturb, dissuade.
Then tie the cord, the knotted ends
that yoke the different threads
we spin and lattice, but not
to demarcate –
The strength’s in bond
and plait.
Horizons awaken
and to get there from here one must see
where the hills and hollows meet
and the rivers and streams retreat
to dreams and shadows fey.
Please do not build a wall,
the kind where horizons are hidden from view.
Solidified mortar against the weather
against the sun and rain, that blocks
one or the other – when they -the both
of them just work together to ripen
and soak this land of opportunity.
I ask that you don’t build a wall,
the kind where there’s brick upon stone.
Though time will avail itself
The vines and the climbers –
the clematis and trumpets will rise
and entwine, stifling the numbness.
The grout it will crumble
with a shout through the pale
as history teaches – walls are assailed.
Do not build a wall, please forego
this thought of a modern Jericho.
The grindstone of building this edifice-
the structure and reasons abound.
The land and the people in unison
need something better – more sound.
Synchronous dreams and horizons.
Hope beyond now- shared not fought.
Walls will not bring us contentment.
Bridges are much better thoughts.
There’s a summer in Chelsea,
a lazy, flush sunrise –
a dew, with its mettle
at morning, then stripped of its guise.
Full glow and blushing
in the mid-day, with nothing
borne except the breezes
that prattle and patter the leaves
and the warm air that settles,
the ardor that thieves.
Just before rain-drops
and thunder arrive on the scene
to swirl and knead everything
before the employ
of the night,incandescent,with hushes
and wants. Pooled sweat and twilight
and intimate haunts.
Indeed, a summer in Chelsea,
and she beams nonchalance.
He sees her wilting coriander
advancing ice and winter weather
casting eyes on cold and anger
like the wilted coriander.
He runs the lathe and turns the marrow
shaving, shaping without sorrow.
What is left but just tomorrow
piled in dust and bone and marrow.
Boiling down the balm and spirits.
Effortless in tone and lyric
words that weep and sounds elicit-
left with tinctured pome, the spirit.
And inside, while cold and bitter
sparks a flame, staves the shiver.
Waits for songs that he will give her
to warm the heart, and mull the bitter.
It sings itself, doesn’t it?
the song about love and hope-
the one about couples, and snowfall and candles
familiar lyrics and trope.
Each verse is a longing
request for addition
with vocalese twinges
that wear down, by detrition,
the crag and stone hindrances
built by decision.
Until, yes, the endgame –
the paramount question
asked with charm and sorcery
with little regard for others
just you and me –
Will you dance inside the phrases
and read my poetry?
Hold my hand firmly
as you focus and you breathe?
Can you imagine, here, set free?
*******
The song “What are you doing New Year’s Eve” was running through my mind this morning, and I wrote this as an accompaniment to the song. A tribute to the muse and love in general, I suppose. Wishing you all the best in 2017.
Paper greetings, printed in opaque black,
swirled with ochre tones – and embossed
with tinsel and glare.
The serenity of straw and stable,
low station and artless beginnings-
in the midst of majestic creations.
Or how the mystery of snowfall
obscures the road ahead, yet in stillness
illustrates continuum beauty where we are led.
The green wreath, the evergreen bough-
decked in ribbon – tinged with gold
and captures glimmer and snow alike, somehow.
See the carolers, their faces
reddened in winter’s callous air –
mouths agape with our imagined joyful song and prayer.
In the bleak midwinter,
Snow lay all around, stars shown bright-
then pealed the bells more loud and clear,
Merry Christmas, Noel, this silent night.
a fragrant voice,
a merging sound
to gather yellow, red and crowned
in a glottal stop
between the soundings
of the clock.
in a fashion, step
betwixt the puddle
stones and ripples, mixed.
lovers with their grasping hands-
arose, then reached at its command
and cleaved the blood-pricked
thorn, alone
in silence
and in clamored tones.
Taps and Ratamacues 