This is possibly one of the most beautiful videos I’ve seen. My wish for each of you is a joy-filled, creative 2012.
Keeper of Memories
In musty basement dark
of that old house upon the hill
an old man finds a tattered leather case
(dimpled faux-finish, I now see)
caresses it as though it were his lover,
while I stand by and watch.
Gnarled hands fumble
at a rusty clasp that keeps
the contents from intrusion.
In spite of trembling that I know so well,
unwanted company of his later years,
he eases the lid open on its wobbly hinges.
Pungent aromas escape to fan
familiar once-upon-a-time remembrances
of when I was a child.
Images flash forward,
rape my ears, my eyes–
and cold smooth surfaces, my touch,
so that a melding of sensations
hurls me back in time
to when I sat in expectation,
and listened to the quiet.
He brings the contents now to view.
No longer does she gleam,
yet there beneath patina tinged with tarnish
I smell music.
Clutching her now against his concave chest
he shuffles rhythmically across the room,
remembering, no doubt those evenings
spent upon the porch in twilight murmurings.
Once settled in between the cushions
of a tattered, dusty chair
he raises up the precious object to his lips and blows.
Diminished breath invades her inner being.
But I am overcome by remnants,
not of sound, but scent
that lingers still within the archives of my soul
in saxophonic exclamation.
A poem posted this week by Claudia (jaywalkingthemoon) set fire to a memory that I embellished quite a bit. Thank you for the sorely needed inspiration, Claudia. As a side note, I have read that the sense that most evokes memories is smell.
I am linking this to dVerse Open Link Night. I hope everyone enjoys a visit to the pub this week and I look forward to sampling your offerings.
Life lived in a minor key
waiting for the final chord.
You walked alone
and yet the song you sang
Dolce, my sweet friend
until alone, as you lived,
Using musical notation, this brief poem is about a loved one who suffered from agoraphobia. She died recently from cancer. Many have commented on her life as wasted. I chose to believe she had her own symphony to compose, and it was full of a gentle, generous beauty.
Agoraphobia is literally translated as fear of crowds. It is a type of social anxiety disorder.
I wrote this in response to the prompt from Sashi at The Gooseberry Garden where today’s prompt is friends, relationships and everyone around. Stop by and read some more at: http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/2011/10/poetry-picnic-week-8-friends.html
Song of Songs
All the world’s a stage set to music.
You stroke my life like strings of Your guitar.
We’re born to fly so Your touch of gentleness
sounds a chord in my core that thrills.
Round and round You lead me in a dance—
the whirling rhythm swirls in my heart.
Rejoice, oh world; you hold grief in your heart.
Defy those who claim silence lacks all music.
Refute the clowns who refuse to dance—
Who, though called to joy, strum a dirge on their guitars.
Avoid the fool who rejects life’s thrill,
who sinks into the void with gentleness.
At dawn, mockingbird chants a song of gentleness
awakens the earth, enlivens her heart.
You stir in my Spirit-womb, Your Presence thrills.
Your promised love resounds of music,
Your hands play me as You would play Your guitar.
Our beings entwine and we enter the dance.
The earth and stars conspire to join the dance.
Ocean waves lick the sands with gentleness,
winds pluck the strings of willow tree guitars
while rain plants seeds in Earth—the Mother’s heart.
By day, the sun sings bliss—at night moon-music
plays arpeggios You designed to thrill.
I hear the door You open with a thrill,
arise to greet Your entry with a dance,
breath in the air You fill with sounds of music,
surrender to the call of gentleness,
responding to the rhythm of Your heart—
the wild beat of a classical guitar.
Submit my soul to music, the stroke of Your guitar,
Your voice, Your gentleness, never fail to thrill.
I yield to the tempo of your dance, lay down my heart.
Thanks to Gay (Hollyheir) and Matt Quinn who posted this challenging prompt over at dVerse’s Form for All. http://dversepoets.com I hope to see many joining us at the Pub.
I am linking this to One Stop Poetry for both One Shoot Sunday where the prompt is inspired by the photography of Walter Parada and One Stop Form. Today’s form is the high octain, created by Luke Prater.
adagio thoughts inhabit me
beside the mountains or the shore
i live for music, nothing more
alone and aimless though i be
i play the blues and drink my booze
then jazz it up to vivace
when morning comes, i toss the score
adagio thoughts return to me
adagio thoughts conquer me
gravissimo my spirit’s core
i leave my music at the door
though from myself i hope to flee
i find my muse in nature’s clues
a gift of music sets me free
once more allow melodic roar
as dolce thoughts come back to me.
Submitted to Poetry Potluck: http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/ and
Monday Morning Writing Prompt: http://liv2write2day.wordpress.com/2011/04/24/monday-morning-writing-prompt-dream-symbolism/
Last night as I slept
the Artist came and dabbed Oleander’s
green with brilliant buds of pink
then feathered white across
a chosen hummingbird.
Last night as I slept
the Violinist played, sweeping
his bow across the fronds of palms.
Music hummed in branches of Crepe Myrtle,
sprinkling her blossoms all across the Earth.
Last night as I slept
the Poet tossed his words into the water,
ripples bore their beauty
all across the world so sere,
so desperate for salvation.
This morning I awoke
to colors of joy,
to sounds of grace,
to possibilities of peace.
This week the Oleanders blossomed overnight, the winds howled, and a striking albino hummingbird has graced us with his presence. Happy Easter to all.
Submitted to SiS’ Daily Haiku Challenge: http://pendownmythought.blogspot.com/p/haiku-challenge.html
A flair for drama
Well, I guess I’m unraveling. I looked at the prompt and the composer, Maurice Ravel, came immediately to mind. He’s best known for Bolero I believe, but when I looked him up in Wikipedia, I found that he wrote a Concerto for a Left Hand. As a lefty, I couldn’t help going for that one. The music illustrated actually depicts a few bars of arpeggio’s from the concerto.
Submitted to Leonnyes Z to A Challenge: http://leonnyes.wordpress.com/
The diagnosis sounds atrocious.
It hinges on repetition.
Songs that jingle in your head
make you wish that you were dead.
What’s the cause of this disease?
No one knows for certain.
Since the tunes don’t always please
they can leave you hurting.
You just confessed you do obsess
on this catchy melody:
“‘F-R-E-E, that spells free,’
rattles round inside of me.”
Just yesterday it went away,
you didn’t think of it at all
until that damn ad played again.
Don’t you know, it will not end?
“Cognitive itch”—that a son of a bitch,
could it be God’s call?
The message you were meant to get:
“It’s a Small World After All.”
They say that earworms can’t be fought.
That only makes you angrier.
The more you scratch the more you itch
and bury it in your memory.
There’s not much that you can do
to stop these “aneurhythms.”
Try to sing the whole damn song,
loud and clear, to pass it on.
When the “hum-bug” gets to you
try to find distraction.
until another one pops in.
Then it all begins again.
“Maim That Tune” you may recall,
means you’re normal after all.
Today at church
a child sang,
smiled at me,
swayed his body
to the rhythm
gazed at the boy,
rocked his old
body to the beat
smiled at me
with rheumy eyes.
Submitted to Monkey Man’s Sunday 160.
Made to honor the men of the military who fly C-130′s carrying our fallen brothers back home. Grab a tissue.