Summer Broadcasts
At the Villa, where we settle our affaires,
the French balcony stays ajar
as Warblers and Larks offer up Summer's wares
An English secretary, atop the stairs,
set so's we might listen on par,
at the Villa where we settle our affaires.
The Tahitian window box triples its shares,
lu’au'ing a fresh wax washed car,
as Blue hummingbirds offer up Summer's wares
Here on high amidst green leaves and falling cares
amid whispered fairytales, near, far,
at the Villa, where we settle our affaires;
There's a divan in the sky instead of chairs
grand Cinema styled, for a Czar,
as bright Kingfishers offer up Summer's wares.
We whistle along to cool fountainpen smears
with a Spirit --no-error-mars,
at the Villa where we settle our affaires,
as Finches and Jays offer up Summer's wares.
The Watch
Any second, the loss... unclasped from hand
and we are falling, in sense and person
disparate, separated by a muted past...
a totem of figures, and long shadows that hug
and laugh... at efforts, so easily disorganized
...lost some place along the green, tallied
expanse, the face of the master mime,
tick marking in space, still, and rolling
forward, by luck, in the calendar
returned back, to me, affixed to the wrist
... the sundial on my heart
Footprints in the sands
I firmly believe that we never hear a song twice. And I don't mean, that it's the first time you hear it that matters most. It's the time that you heard it, really held it, within a circumstance that sets the music for you, fitted like in fine jewelry. That gemstone, that cameo, or picture in the locket, becoming surrounded by auditory gold, or silver if preferred.
Then, with every glance back at the music, we see it as if turning in another light...
yet, somehow, that most significant instance, is there in the tint of the shadows, or highlights, and becomes a near or distant accompaniment... as mood that goes with, in the background.
We seldom sang at home. It turned out that was a great regret, to our adults. Our dad sang us songs sometimes. Our mom once confided, when we were grown and on our own: "I thought for sure having two girls meant there would be constant singing around the house..."
She never sang. We dare not either, except in private, where there were no adults to criticize. (I make a point now of singing loud with my little boy, and my heart cheers and flutters at every attempt of his to follow along with lyrics, to hum a tune, or invent his own songs. I want for him to know that freedom of spirit.)
Criticism was taken very seriously in the household, immediate and extended family, as an art form in itself in the oratory tradition. I understand now why mom held her tongue rather than be scolded and reminded that her tastes were too common.
I'm listening now to Diana Ross and the Supremes and remembering the grimace that passed across faces. No one wants to be shamed of the music that finds resonance within themselves; for reasons, more oft than not, hidden or incoherent, and psychologically complex.
As I'm dwelling on music that moved, emotionally or intellectually, impacting our path in some way, I can't help go back to this one song involuntarily, that on hearing once as a teen, I could not listen to again, but would shut it off, or walk away. I have blocked the title, and the artist, only to say it is a commonly played 80s tune by a rock band with female vocalists, and it must have been, objectively speaking a powerful number, to have that gripping effect on a young person. I had trouble wrapping my mind around the moral implications, the ethics, and where I would place myself into the situations of any one of the characters that would be involved. It was story song, a rock ballad. (I am leaving no clues here, so don't trouble the mind in trying to retrace any leftover grains.)
I won't listen to it even now, yet I commend the impact. That is art, isn't it? and we remember the footprints in the sands of memory long after they have been wind swept and near irrelevant. Things change. They certainly shift. A little bit of sensory input, goes a long way, many a times.
I've never been to a grand concert... It would terrify, I imagine. Once, on impulse I bought tickets to the unlikely proposition that 10,000 Maniacs was to play live at our nearby ski and summer resort and conference center called with southern homeliness Mountain Creek. That was very bold of me, but familiarity built up confidence, and I sometimes make a gamble on odd chances. Tickets, for me and my sister; we never went. The concert was "canceled" a day or two before, and it took months to get a refund. Maybe cynical teenage imagination was at play, but we decided somebody had swindled a quick loan from the community... it was quite hard to believe that our little locale would be visited by any such name brand in music, just too good to be true...
https://youtu.be/c0b7ltFrB34?si=yZZz542f3eufMGef
As a theme, I've been drawn to songs about the passing of time. Maybe it's because the first cassette I ever owned was Cyndi Lauper's 1983 She's So Unusual album, and my favorite track was Time After Time.
https://youtu.be/lx8-95fPjHc?si=uEe9FB3qZCnDqi6P
I remember receiving the cassette soon after starting school, so I would say I was six or seven years old. By that time mom had already run off from our home twice; with us and without us, children. The tune has continued to grow in meaning for me.
Eventually, I did some church choir singing, and to this day those hymnals, memorized, are among the most comforting musical tunes for me. I'm thinking of songs like Here I am Lord; On Eagles Wings; and Amazing Grace, among others.
I'm trying very hard to think of a song or album that I felt initially one way about, and then, on rehearing, changed my mind... and it must have happened, but apparently nothing that strongly felt, as I am not recalling. Maybe I feel less dismissive of Frank Sinatra or Linda Ronstadt or similar voices that I thought, early on, lacked depth... unfair judgements, immature, and I chide myself against these notions, nowadays.
It takes quite a lot of vulnerability to create songs, lyrical or instrumental, of every kind, especially as a cohesive body of work. Yes, there is music that doesn't suit the moment, but it ought not be dismissed altogether... Or deemed as good or bad. I've tried very much to be open to all music and to its ability to nurture our soul along the journey. We are blessed, when we can turn and return to music again, if only reliving it in our hearts.
Poetry
This is how
you inspire me
to death
This is image
and word, a fist
and its dissect
deep
prime cuts
of life
on
the operations table
shouldering
the doctor,
as patient:
...Chairs,
single filed
gray matter, turned on paper,
and the time... It takes us...
we pick up the score
along the byways
blushed with emotion,
and cosmic relief,
extra sensory
reflex
solving viscerally
for some unknown
prismatic Y
crystal stoppered,
in colored perfume vial
called, "Eternal Rest."
(To cover the smell...)
And this is how
you inspire me
to try
once and again
to be righted
from the carnet
by example, or
demonstration
reboot, and a
stepping back
into vacation
because
that is the nature
of the A-l-i-v-e-
it leaves,
and makes space
for imagination
like electricity
in hot wires
needs adept
technicians,
who can pair
safe and kind
to avert
the jolted shock
And like
a magic bean
small and dark
you certainly
don't seem
the part
to keep us up at night
watering
the celestial garden
(hey ...stars don't
grow by themselves,
Mama)
and so we'll be renowned
in our own fabled yards
reclining,
we'll catch
and play
(after all
we are dogs)
the lyric we hear
from inside
is the leash
that keeps us, unmastered
Do I need to go on....?
I'll be at the vault
and you'll be rerunning
the human song
in your heart
somewhere far off
with big wet syllables
of our shared
arrhythmia...
punch by punch
of every
small reunion
that is final
in itself,
when held up...
for inspection
we might've been
in sync at several points
and that's enough
to tune us
in, into the pattern
of the infinite
on either side
of the platform
disbelieving, we'll be here
again someday
(never twice
the same way,
like Lightning McQueen
is a strange conglomeration)
And this is the way
you inspire me
to death
by idea...
I know a little girl
once about this age,
who's given name,
"Ms. Fortune,"
we tacitly acquiesced
as familial indiscretion,
or didn't even
notice,
because
the namesake
in cloy reflection
would own us...
if cited as Mistake.
Still,
we don't chose
optimism,
either...
We opt for
Marquez Realism
of things
retold
to ourselves
by a future us
when they seem
to happen
I mean years later
on recollection
of the aftermath
while measuring
out chicken
liquid
spilt...
when I will shrink
like a hot washed
cashmere sweater
of your favorite
thread baby
bear,
you'll look down
and hold my hand
like something
fragile
that a verb
might break
but doesn't,
and you'll think
in borrowed verse
how things travel
along the spokes
of a unicycle,
person to person
around a pinnacle
of thought
no matter how small
the kernel
this how
you inspire me
farther...
as miracle
neither child
nor forefather
nor sibling
nor other
just a
long pause
inside
dialog
.
.
.