on bach

a point in time and
the sound between spaces,
talking blissful bach.
is my heart a strumming
string, running
stream of conscious
nests summed up
by a sonata? so
so familiar, as if
i was born to be
this emotion, a
motion within
a moment, swimming
an ocean of
sensation.

to be me, and only.
me? i mean, time
will tell whether
or not
i can tell you
whither i will
find my
self when
forever is ever
gonna become
something other
than never. mind
you, this is only
metaphor. a figure
of speech, and
i sculpt them,
literally.

a claret reality,
the viticulture of a
cello, sweet
surrender. i am sure
of this. wine and wonder,
under a spell, out
on a limb, oh
how the notes
are hints at a taste
of divinity! so
much to live for,
such savor and succor.
my heart thrums, rhythms
to rhyme for, such bliss
to die for. oh
bach, you beautify my
melancholy.

soulstice souliloquy for lost soulmate, with coltrane

sits with sips, wine
scriptures long into this
longest night, supreme. a love
affair with solitude,
a saxophonic soliloquy
as each swallow follows
afloat on thoughts. of her,
a passion laughter, her bluesies,
that blues ease, sky eyes
when she was inside, yet
never left even after we said
goodbye. as memories drain
from an uncorked bottle, evidential
remains, as stains on my lips
purple my heart.

love never dies, does it?

now then, rain, what do you
want? growing, as green waves,
greening this world. rapping
on wet windows, breath
as fog and night is long
getting longer. the sun
is only a rumor these days.

and love is supreme, immortal.

not that reminders are needed.
i have my thots trained
in the element of surprise.
surprised? i am a book of shadows
writ large under the light
of a lover's day, her moonlight.
i am eclipsed by nostalgia, if
only because my heart reflects
a cluster of light, starry nights
twinkling of her eyes
and i crossed the galaxy
just to taste that sunlit sugar.

anchors aweigh! i am
forever a novice at sea,
for all my talk of sea depth
of knowledge, i only know
my heart sailed away with her,
her anchor away
somewhere deep inside.

love never dies? what
do i know of love, or
death?

another sip, swallowing memories,
swathed in blues. but on jazz
my brain waves at a receding
shore. all those heartbreaks, yet room
for more to love. so much more.

some things never die.
so i feed sunlight to the sunlight.
demons are beautifully kissed,
the night is long
getting longer,
and still i linger
at the edge of wine sentience,
a life sentence.
the scripture reads:
let's drink to life and love,
let us die with that knowledge.

magic chef boy

magic dreamer, he
cooks celestial, feeding
his people. his desire
to simmer us all
in his soup of the soul:
to cure the world.

wild horse with no master,
not realizing his own mastery.
hidden in a shrinking forest,
laborious wooden hands,
leather eyes, if only
we could see
what plains lie before
his wilderness of imagination.

the peasantry written
into his face, weathered, his
mossy cedar mane. voice
that echoes from his ancient
his ancient ancient heart. and then,
the little boy who stares out
from behind those clouded eyes,
that grinning tooth.

folklore boy

have you heard the wind in the grass,
the crackle of hot madrona bark,
what long sad trains have to say,
the appalachian autumn fog,
the stringy lament of the salt of the earth?
listen now to his elemental coal, his mine
of simple sorrow and profound joy,
to this singing history book, from sea
to shining sea.

he sings in harmony with this modern day
and days gone by. whiskey and
dilapidated porches, shotguns and
railroads, unions and rusty tools; these
all live through his hands plowing
the land.

he is here to remind us, life is a story,
it has no beginning and no end. to
understand the entire story, you must know
where you are in the song. otherwise,
there is no song, no notes, no scales
to weigh your importance, no keys
with which to unlock the future.

therefore, he sings and tells us a story,
and we listen, because we need this
knowledge of who we were, who we are,
and where we need to go.

festival boy

prince, peasant,
boatman, land rover,
wandering bird
with deepening nests.
some dragons are fire,
some water, or air or
earth, but he is
the meeting of all.
mover and shaker,
stones will move
and shake when he
invents for us
the desire for festivity.
the dance won't stop,
because the music
never stops.

a dozen busy arms
perform twenty four
busy tasks. the saw
does not stop singing,
the tractor will not
sit and rust, projects
beget two-fold projects.
no matter the occasion,
he is the forefront
of it all, strong of back,
facing down the rain
and wind, hoisting
sail, making electricity,
smoothing the dance
floor, beating a path
to celebration.

and there he is,
in the eye of the storm,
tall and commandeering,
like some apparition
of churchill or macarthur,
persevering and conquering,
providing, laughing,
laughing.

bizarre boy

he comes, dressed in scrap metal,
dragging etiquette by a noose.
strange bumblebee, the odd
clanging bell of varied states
of disrepair revolving his head.

wise hermit clothed as a jester,
yet i thought i saw the lone cowboy.
where there should be a monk
in meditation, i find a laughing duck.

his golden genius is society's refuse.
give him a broken umbrella, a stopped
clock, three frying pans, a bucket
of bolts, some wire and a coat hanger,
and you will find him sailing
to the moon with a winged monkey.

do not underestimate his song,
for all songs are sacred, though his
is the rant of madness, he reminds us
to be wary of our pretensions, our
conventions. never forget this.

softly girl

a gaze, soft pierce
of the soul, warmth
aglow off
sets her
aloof.

a quiet deception,
that stillness, what
stirs inside
is intelligence
masked.

a seriousness, her
stone demeanor
crumbles under
penchants for
silly.

still waters run
deep, her depth
is perception, a
knowing eye
encompasses.

looks are surfaces,
real beauty takes
appreciable time,
such class as hers:
timeless.