Tag Archives: Music

lagniappe

Because mornings emerge from misty bayous
and moss that hangs and touches the sky-
a reflection in glass.
Because the thickness in the air wraps
the sunlight and holds it close.
The moments are a drawl, and a legacy of
stillness waits-
it waits between each drawing breath,
lingers between each morning glory
and rain lily-
a sweet kiss from a drowsy boo
and its momentary entanglements.
Even before the first note sounds
the blues, there is beauty conjured in the
slim to none spell-
and it is some kind of wonderful,too.

Lay

Careful-
With that song
and dance, the one that tweaks their
minds. By chance,
do you rent your inspiration?
Your soul, your lust and legislation
all inclusive-
gone buffet.

A little here and there’s Okay.

Take salad tongs
to prep your bowl
with crawfish, okra,
mac and rolls.
And when the trip down line’s complete,
you feel the ache swell in your feet.

Then I could sit and give massage
til metaphors spill
and rhymes barrage.
The song transforms from swing to pop
a subtle lay with ballad stops.

The night with moonlight’s shade is set,
and you and I,

we pirouette.

footprints

Yesterday, I cut back the burning bush
on the hill beside my house.

It never spoke to me.
Not once.

It had grown higher
than I stand, unchecked
for now thirteen years,
and never commanded me
to remove my shoes.

It is recommended
that the wings be trimmed in late winter,
before new growth begins.
The fly-away branches-gone now. Just
fragments discarded on some sad morning
and a rooted scrag in place
awaiting rebirth.

I see no divine providence
or transcription of holiness
in this. Hope will follow
in the spring.

Now, a deepening chill ebbs
-in vain.
Winter is not yet over,
and I tarry in the garden
alone.

Immersion

It seems like a metamorphosis
of sorts.
There is evolution of the language
in the shade of pines,
assuaged by a sun companion,
the complexities of the song
from her secret heart-
a pastorale,
that lures and covers me.

I become sacrificial
and my tongue,
a voice in the chorus,
melds with the music.
A heightened song
of concurrence-
wrapped in vines of honeysuckle,
floating in basins of still water.
Ringing true, long after
the last word is uttered
in near, deep silence.

walk

The public order
of the ocean,
a blur of mist and foam.
The captive sounds
of marching throngs
so felt this far
from home.

A crushing flood
of tides and breakers,
twelve bars into song
assuage the mystic
caravan singing,
everybody
let’s get stoned.

Shrieking, cry the gulls
above the din
of skin and groans.
I toss a shell.
It’s gonna rain.
I feel it
in my bones.

double

There is little left
of thread that ties and undulates
through fabric’d whys.
The whats have gone the wayside now
with time – the when –
don’t ask me how.

This never was infinite string
-ain’t what it used to be,
this thing that stitched my words
in canvas, starched and mended-
just as December ended.

So, with anew, fresh double cloth
the patterns swirl
without the gloss and keep me warm
in thoughts subdued
of music,
sweet – the words are true.