MOMENT OF BEAUTY
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
From high above the planet
The piccolo of solar wind
Blows through the shimmering
Sheaves of thin-air, warming
Past nimbus, down to
Dark rain clouds
Their full udders far below
Heavy in the warming.
Weaned of protection the ice weakens
At the joints, drops of water
Tremble into hairlines, brow drenched
With sweat the glacier finally
Gives way, tumble-slides into foam
Of waves and flashing gulls.
The roar subsides and then another
From beyond the curve.
Without a complaint the giant settles
Lumbering into floes, gulls screech
Splinters of sunlight
Scratch into the ice.
Up beyond the coastal villages
Noah herds his zoo towards the clouds;
Make haste, make haste, the shoreline rises
Time is short.
High in their slender castles
In their counting houses the war kings
Wait, deliberating, calculating,
Trade balances, stock markets, interest rates
And budgets stacked high to shut out
The splintering light. Thick windows
Double glazed deafen the piccolo notes,
The giants’ roars.
Day by day, inch by inch the water rises
The kings deliberate, arguing now, advisors
Passing notes from one to the other.
We watch them on television, hypnotized
By the pendulum swing of interests and greed.
Too late they see the brine rising in
The elevator shafts, creeping under the doors.
High above the pinnacles bobs the ark
Survivors waiting for the planet’s pendulum to
Correct its swing. Generations pass, millenniums
Tick their frozen seconds, nebulas swing
Unconcerned across the stellar night.
A lone astronomer on a distant world
Adjusts his telescope to observe the changing colors
As blue slips across the green, across the white,
A moment of beauty captured in the lens.
SHOWER IN A FOREST GLADE
For Mary Oliver
Silver sounds
like a river
no punctuation marks
running across
and down the dell
each syllable
a song
of love
of life
sunlight
filtering through
mottled shadow
lighting pools
where fish
and tadpoles
play gleaming games
between the drifting leaves
only the owl
and the coyote
sing their coda
as butterscotch moonlight
is heard
lapping vanilla
through
the undergrowth
and then
the maestro
from a podium of cloud
lifts his baton
and a glissando
of soft wet notes
streams from the sky
filling the trees
with chandeliers
of almost
soundless
drops
DAZZLING SILENCE
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
bless the deaf
who need to hear
the echo of a world
through others’ signs
remembering reverberations
of snapped consonants
substituting thumbs and fingers
for eardrums, vibration
for the ring of mobile phones
for them the foaming mists
of waterfalls abandon roars
to flying birds
and herds of elephants
rush by on silent
dust cloud feet
bless the deaf remembering
somewhere inside
how each instrument describes
itself upon the page
until turned around to see
the audience explode
into a sea of
gloves and faces
waving programs
but most of all
bless those born
innocent of sound
what poetry of eyes
and fingertips, they write
in seagull throats
what unborn melodies
they taste
between the stars
ears for them
are soundless planets
revolving around a brilliant sun
MULTIMEDIA UNDERSCORE ONE
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
The orchestra tunes up
cellos scrape, marimbas writhe
oil-drum cauldrons clang out
like a Jamaican fruit stall
fonts wriggle themselves into shape
quickly go on diet to fit neatly
underneath rows of dancing notes
It’s experimental music
pitched off-key and zany
yet reminiscent of Vivaldi
flavored with mustard
from an Andy Warhol hot dog
it flashes in the night
lightning before drum roll thunder
while blue neon holograms
shiver over perspiring rhythms
and five inverted versions
of mystery flats and sharps
counterpoint each other in cool intervals
Then comes a sudden hush
a breath held in anticipation
as a single wind chime sounds
again and again, like a bird on a steeple
like cold rainwater trembling from brown eaves
dripping like hot chocolate sauce
on to an ice cream ball of pristine snow
freezing instantly into flaky nuggets of sound
and all melts in the wonder of it… melts,
and hushes back into a silent white world
PRINCE OF THE NIGHT
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
She stole the sun
from its golden orbit
and placed it under her tongue
She stalked the tracks
of the mountain snowman
rubbed stinging ice off blazing peaks
to rouge the pallor of her cheeks
She swam with whales and dolphins,
learned their sonar clicking language
she dressed in bark and moss,
asked questions of rain forests
searched distant skies for a jeweled clue
to light a beacon path to love
But no answer came
and with each passing millennium
she came to understand
that her shining prince was just a legend
a fairy tale in a bottle from another world
bobbing the seas of the universe
lost in the eternal cold of blackest space
I am alone, she decided after countless eons,
alone forever in the whiteness of an ice splinter,
the roaring silence of a shoreless sea
What am I to do?
Do not despair, sang the sun in her throat
keep searching, echoed the glacier
swim deeper, urged the whale’s mind
pass through us, whispered galactic clouds
And so she searches for her prince
through sea and sky and stars
she searches, searches, sifting time
like sand grains seen through glass
And if you too would seek your prince
and you are brave of heart
go out into the desert vast
and raise your eyes towards the sky
a billion burning candles will fill your night
and as this blazing wonder thrills your mind
you will see her riding there
from gleam to gleam with wand outstretched
And when you see a falling star
you and she will find your prince
OBOE d’AMORE
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
There’s a melody plaintive and true
an oboe air that winds
between the young woman and Cimarosa
now that she is undressed and alone
Touch me! it cries and I stretch out
but she is not there and I touch another
standing at the window looking out
as she hears the melody played on
the wings of a blackbird
pecking at a plum
The plum falls to the ground
the melody flows into the earth
touches the thoughts of a young man
boarding a train and she,
standing on the platform,
tiptoes to his lips waving goodbye
as he sees a boy on a piano stool
holding a ball
gazing into nowhere
Once again the old photograph of the boy
trembles in its leather case
hears the melody
fingers the piano keys
as they remember a young girl
boarding a train on tiptoe
her dress stretching upwards
to her thighs
No, says the melody
I am an oboe, touch me!
hold me firmly, gently
press here, and here,
feel how the melody wanders out
touch me, touch me
And she stretches upwards
standing at the window
looking out as the platform drifts away
the brown case closes,
folding the twin reeds of the oboe
back into maroon baroque velvet
until all that remains
is a blackbird
picking at a plum
TO AID THE WORDS
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
Let’s use everything we find
to say the things we cannot say
in words alone
Let’s use brackets to surround us,
hide the thoughts we really think
considering them too callous
then remove them later
reconsider and apologize
Let’s use repeated hyphens and periods
to distance us from who we are
or wish to be some day
Let’s splatter ourselves over the page
like spilt coffee
then entitle ourselves Rorschach
Let’s take the paper, fold it into four,
scissor out parts of it then open it up
to see what we have left
where the light shines through
Let’s press aggressively with a red pen
write syllables that never can be erased
let’s use box files without labels
to store in bottom drawers,
gather cartons from street corners
to pack away the words for posterity,
pile them in attics to gather dust
Let’s use recording devices to listen to ourselves,
sound mixers to record over recordings
over recordings, sing the same songs again
and again in different voices
producing a strange symphony of sound
that someone later will remark
oh, that’s modern music
Let’s use laundry pegs, clip them on our noses
speak in adenoidal foreign-sounding accents
as if we’re someone else from some other place
making ourselves up
Let’s use newspapers, carefully cut out the headlines,
throw them away, clip out learned quotations from
the literary supplements, throw them away too,
use photographs instead
Let’s collect finger paintings of three year olds
and gaze and gaze remembering so much we have forgotten,
once knew so well that we took them for granted
Laughing, playing, falling, crying
never trying to describe anything at all
that wouldn’t be forgotten the next day
NIGHT DIES OVER THE CITY
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
With only two hushed hours
left to the night
shift worker yawns in dim apartment room
watches truck beams paint
flicker strips across the gloom
dresses in the dark so not to waken wife
On bedroom wall diagonal fish
turn to Escher ducks
who gaze towards the sky
as blinking wingtip lights
drift in toward runway’s empty boulevard
and above the water on the bridge
today’s suicide takes a final puff
deep into the stubble of his joint,
and flicks it over the rail curving
deep to estuary below
Down they sail together
towards the beckoning depths
brief as fireflies caught in fleeting
beauty before demise
A blind man blinks from aircraft window
at the city where, here and there
high rise windows burn forgotten,
while moored at waterside
freighters reflect in oily silence
a whispered adagio
creeping from a muted parked car
where illegal lovers,
extinguished in each other’s dreams
hold on to the fading glimmer
of wishes spent
…and somewhere in the heavens
the darkness parts
as a falling meteorite
burns itself to death
THE STREETS OF TIME
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
Last night you came to me Johann Sebastian
this is not the first time I have dreamed of you is it
Do they remember me a little you whispered
just a little your eyes beseeched
Oh Johan my dear come to the window
look out on these towers their spires
piercing the clouds the transports
flitting like fireflies between them
See this wall of buttons press this one
and again and this one and this
ah yes that’s right now
How could I describe how you lit up
like a laser torch glowing pulsing listening
your feet beginning to tap in wonder of
alien voices and instruments beating out strangely
familiar notes and rhythms and then your eyes glistening
with first recognition you dared to mouth the question
What is that?
Press this button Johann
that is jazz, that is rock, that is improvisation
funk heavy metal trance different dances
Swingle’s there too sweet and true
dream, fusion, integrative blue complexity
Do you hear emotions, romantic intrusions
words woven in between the notes to and fro
the tapestry of modern music
can you hear them Johann, I see you do
begin to understand they are all you
Press here and here
colorful long tailed birds tadpoles pitcher bearers
climbing busily then tumbling
helter-skelter through nimble snakes and ladders
up and down the rungs of sol and fa
rhythms notes counterpoint
all coming clear now yes they are your children
and there you are striding head and shoulders
above them all down the streets of time
open the window Johann and float out
to meet them in the scents of the night
you and they and their children and
great grandchildren will be back
I know it eternally
DANCING WITH A GHOST
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
Dancing with a ghost
is something
you should not think about
at evening-fall
when candlesong is strong
as lanterns glow
on the dance floor below
Floating with a ghost
is something
you should not brush against
at night
when quilts are turned down
blooms swim in dusk
water lilies float in musk
Dancing with a ghost
to an old guitar
is a memory
you should not allow yourself
to play
his fingers on your strings
your neck your breast your wings
Soaring with a ghost
above the stars
is a fantasy
you should not tremble to
his feet like wings
across the sky
your skirt a bird about to fly
Dancing with a ghost
is something
you do not wish for now
betrothed to your vows
your bodice tight
you hair pinned up
your heart beat manacled
your wingtips clipped and sheared
lest you scratch your skin
and bleed a thousand tears
Yet despite it all
when candleglow is strong
and when a sweet guitar
picks up an old familiar song
you dream of dancing with a ghost
the whole night long
LISTENING TO THE VOICE INSIDE
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
In the heart of things
everything points North
In silence, a voice
saying, this way, do not doubt
Misnamed future, it is a disentanglement
unfastened with a slender clasp
It is a skein constantly unfurled
allowing freedom to escape forward
Do not doubt the forwardness of North
it does not require movement, only acceptance
It does not require understanding
as a compass, as a magnet knows the way
Through birth, through death
lies an arrow pointing North
Do not whirl, be quiet
it’s always there in the heart of things
Listening to the voice inside.
Can you hear it?
KING OF JAZZ
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
Smiling he sits alone at the piano
cigarette burning in an ashtray
composing toothpaste blues
honky-tonk sarsaparilla solos
cool clarinet cascades
Evening news snaps on
the tea lady clinks her cups
birds chatter to each other
rustle to their nests
a dog barks in the distance
but he, alone in his house of deafness,
hears nothing but the music of his mind
Caught in the wonder of the mood
he hears her voice again
sees her flying skirts
the seventy-eight girl
spinning between bass man and guitar
both hands holding the mike like a lover
she throws a throaty hello to the crowd
Now he is dancing with her again
crouched over keyboard, his fingers
thrust softly into the sound, the blues drift out
linking him, her and the crowd
in a dusky cloud of notes and cigarette smoke
Then the number ends
the crowd shouts for more
but he only hears the ghost of the seventy-eight girl
standing beside him
smelling of raspberry and wild fruit
spelling the notes into his pencil
onto the sheet, bar by blue bar
The cigarette burns itself out
the melody sits completed on the stand
smiles back at him
the seventy-eight girl wheels him back to bed
tucks him in between the blankets
kisses his dark brow
turns off the light
and King of Jazz
slips smiling into paper dreams
VARIATIONS ON A BLUE THEME
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
Thirteen twists on a blue theme’s chest
yo ho ho and a bottle of fun
sing till the rhythm beats fast in your breast
yo ho ho and the dance has begun
Twelve dapper crows on a willow tree branch
cawing caw caw at the river’s run
cawing after breakfast, cawing after lunch
cawing after dinner as moon outshines the sun
Moonlight dancing in a blue theme’s dream
skipping round the bodies of the sleeping tree’s trunks
when the rushing river paints the eleven shades of green
they scuttle back to heaven in gleaming yellow chunks
Ten years old skinny dipping in the river
legs flashing pinkly at the tiny silver fish
as the sun sinks westward she gives a little shiver
wriggles clothes over shoulders and makes a special wish
Crows caw caw into sleeping themes
hoarsely intruding her pink and blue dreams
nine-o-clock teen slips into her jeans
brushing teeth she ponders what the blue dream means
Secretary gets to the office after eight
fixes up her lipstick at the coffee machine
thanking her blue luck that the old crow is late
she types another memo to the head office team
Seven willow trees line the dancing river’s banks
tresses bowing down from lipstick green shoulders
sipping at the river’s rhythm, watching fishes’ pranks
admiring bubbly themes floating in-between the boulders
At six o’clock each day Willow brushes her teeth
washes blue dreams from her sleepy morning eyes
slips on sexy panties and a skin tight blue sheath
wishing once again she could go down one more size
In the Blue Theme nightclub at a quarter past five
a loving pair gaze sleepily into each other’s faces
the pianist plays oldies from the sixties and before
and jazzes up some classics in between slow embraces
Four blue streams merge and sweep towards the ocean
gushing river melodies play morning themes to crows
colors mix and match in melodious commotion
rainbow dancers swirl in flamenco to’s and fro’s
Moonlight streams bluely on the willowed river shores
ghosting lunar rhythms through the swaying theme trees
centuries old melodies return to dream encores
willow fronds play waltzes in gentle one-two-threes
Thinking about Rachmaninov’s Paganini variations
the poet wets his pencil in the leafy moonlight gleam
feeling like a florist making dance music creations
he slips a single rose into a blue theme’s dream
THE GOLDEN LOCKET
from 'Sonatina' published by Ibbetson Street Press
Playing to herself
she plucks music from a bowl of flowers
floating water lily fragrances,
rose water, jasmine, turkish delight,
pink, white and scented with pollen.
‘Listen’, she says, dropping notes
from her fingertips, splashing into the bowl,
each note a ballad, a flower of youth,
under trees, scent of passion, hidden
fragrance of lost love, broken promises
deep blood red roses of artillery shells
spilling from the sky, staining soil
with fragments of regret.
‘Look’, she sings, plucking a daisy
petal-by-petal, I loved him, I loved him not.
A wind blew over the bowl causing
the leaves to rustle from the trees
and dance around her hands
rusting into ochre.
‘Once there was a young officer’, she
plucked him from her book,
golden buttons dripping from his uniform
golden notes into the bowl
‘He went to war, fought bravely, never
returned’.
‘See’, she said,
‘he’s still here, my first love’.
She opened a golden locket, inside was
a tiny music box turning
an old refrain under the moon,
a bed of grass and leaves between trees
and not far away, a small hill,
a row of graves, each grave an album
of memories played less frequently
over the years
through sunlight, through moonlight.
I looked, the water was clear, the roses white,
the petals white, translucent,
her hair white, her music reflected
in the snow.
Sometimes in winter, I revisit her,
frozen by the pond, her fingers white
to the moon, white as snowflakes and icicles
silvering from her touch to the frozen
mirror of the pond. Once I heard her music
in the air and beheld a young girl in white
riding a bicycle, singing up a hill
disappearing into her own song.
LITTLE MISS MUSICAL PHRASE
She is only a breathful of music
just a handful of measures
yet with a shape of her own
her own theme, motto and meaning
asking her own questions
providing her own answers
part of the whole to be sure
but melodiously standing out from the crowd
She has her own life, emotions
tossed on waves of polyphonic oceans
she is passionate, joyful
whirling into shapes and sprays of excitement
like a musical fountain in a full-moon night
and at times she is calm, soothing
a sea of peace lullabying baby fish to sleep
or plucking a plaintive guitar
in the stillness of the deep
She has her own signature line
instantly recognizable
her own voice
conforming to tradition
yet daring to be bold
pleased with her own adventures
confidently knowing that
today’s avant-garde
will be tomorrow’s fashion
She is an actress too
and like an exquisite coconut soloist
amidst a bevy of blonde choir girls
she strides barefoot down platforms
over audiences, proud of her own dusky allure
striking a quick flash of a pose
then turning, returning, accepting the applause
Once heard and seen, many fall in love with her
breathlessly wait for her return
but no encores tonight for her
she’s off on a bus
packed with performers and instruments
and all the paraphernalia of a traveling band
laughing and drinking a beer on the road
from village to village, town to town
school hall to concert auditorium
to thrill new crowds, capture new hearts
She is only a phrase
just a breathful of music
on her way to stardom