Never took the time
to go out at night,
to look at the stars,
the shooting stars,
to listen to nature’s song
of the birds, the bugs, the coyotes.
Was told that bad things
happen at those hours
but it seems that bad things
happen at all hours.
Why not find beauty
in the late and early hour
if it can be found
in the waking ones too?
Tag: music
Gray Area
You stay strangely vacant
from the grey matter these days.
Why, it was a traveler–a vagrant–
who saw you
so that they could relay
it to the rest of us.
Eyes, so to speak, who composed
music of the loveliest girl
in the world.
Translated it too. Translated it
for all the senses, for all the muscles,
the blood, the bones.
Why did they look to you
when they can just get by?
I could get you off my mind
but the vacancy
seldom lasts.
Rhapsody in Black and Blue
The impossible, improbable,
sprouts fruit from a vegetable
and the still-life watercolor
becomes vibrant video.
The screen fades, the frame falls,
the world so real
you could lay in the grass
and wake on the clouds.
Laughing. Smiling.
There
comes a fall
and the grass
and the frame
and the screen
and the colors shimmer,
dulled into a tattered canvas.
Maybe when we fell
it should have been
back to reality,
but maybe, no, probably
it was not for nothing.
Mheall Sí Lena Glórthaí Mé
I don’t miss the days
of being young and dumb
when I am just a bit older now
but sometimes when I hear a note
on the old piano
I hear that French tune all over again,
played by an inexperienced player
who made it her goal to learn it,
who played her heart out
even further
than its usual place
at the opening of her sleeves,
who dared to be herself
and smile all the while
they told her not to,
yes,
only sporadically do I wish
to step back in time
that I might let her know then,
or earlier,
or later
that her voice carried through life
and it carries through time
with grace and charm and admiration.
Not just the song. Not just the one time.
Not just the words
nor the words of this poem.
It was everything she did,
and she enticed me with her voice
Cold Hands
There is a feeling
as if the purest oxygen
filled your lungs
when she is near.
I was lost in a trance
but heard all the mimes and monks
sing Che Gelida Manina
as loud as they could
just to get her attention.
Cold hands indeed, Puccini,
for the warmth is a raging furnace
in her heart.
I’ll not be Rodolfo; please don’t be Mimi.
I’ll take your hand
if you want me to,
only if you want me to.
But I’ll still sing love in my heart.
The Two Fools Waltz
Lonely together,
forever
with you
apart from each other,
apart from
the view
that’s happy, healthy,
and all that thereof,
lonely together
but madly
in love
Driving Past the Rest Stop and Welcome Center
A little late
but the interstate is forgiving,
moving, empty.
Dwight Yoakam
sings Buck’s other song
and an old memory
of a cardboard CD case
touches my exposed fingers
not holding the steering wheel,
a phantom of the honky tonk
(if Leroux pays no mind, anyway.)
The radio surprises me sometimes
but memory almost always does.
It was a gift–not forgotten,
just not remembered–
from someone that I
have spent too long
remembering to forget
.
Tripping On Shadows
I see music in your eyes
but I hear nothing.
Won’t you meet me
somewhere in the middle,
in the midst of
the pale light of a fast song
and the shadows cast
by slow ones?
My eyes long to hear you,
my heart beats
to see you
NaNoWriMo Blues
I don’t want to write today
I haven’t got a thing to say;
won’t you help me find the words?
All that I’ve wrote is for the birds
and they use it for their homes
just not as decorative tomes
Waiting, Wanting, Needing
She dances gracefully
on the wisps
of non-existent memories
in my heart,
spurred on by music box melodies
of songs yet to be written.
I want and I beg
for her to leave,
to trod on the worn-out
welcome mat
on her way out,
but the thought of her leaving
hurts me in another, yet familiar, way.
My head bobs,
my foot taps.
Some pollution of ignorance
still travels through
my veins.
It wants her to go
but
I need her
to stay.
The Unnecessary Blog 