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.
Tag: songs
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
Rock Song
Would you help me, my friend?
I’ve had quite enough
for I’m stuck in between
the diamonds and rough.
I could have asked you
to give me a hand
but in fear I declined
since you’d understand.
Please help me, I beg you,
my pride to efface
for I’m stuck in between
this rock and hard place
Forever Young
Just another song
with another story
that I try to forget,
a song I’ve heard
a thousand times before
and a thousand times
since,
but sometimes
I hear him sing
those words again,
when they sneak through
the FM waves,
and I smile at
the fading memories
I have of you
Song of the Cicada
You can’t walk without
stepping on the bent spoons
that the hungry left behind,
who had tried to carve a chunk
out of the muggy air
but left with less
than they brought.
The cicadas sang a song once
on such a day as this
but no one remembers the words.
Are they singing it now?
It’s hard to tell if it stops or not
when its noise
is all that’s left
to remember
Blue Bird Blues (haikus)
The small bird whistles
“Cheap!” with feet perched on the wire —
a different power
* * * * *
Sing me the songs sang
sullenly and scarce, show me
with words and a tune
* * * * *
The manic crow laughed
at those who were wrong, no thought
given to menus
Fast Songs
Slow song,
fast heartbeats,
a slow burn into a wildfire–
wasted whiskey to feed either vice
but thrown to the wind instead.
Was it love? Was it not?
Now flowers laid waste–
their petals fall,
fingertips from shaky hands
pulling them off
as if the flower knew
some answers.
What answers?
Who knew?
We didn’t.
Fast songs played us out.
Ponderings Above the Tree Roots
I wonder if the falling bird
knows at their first descent
that they will learn
to fly
or
if the flying bird
does wonder from
high up in their perch
why we don’t meet them
on the treetops
to sing songs
all the live-long day
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