There she stood playing a melody,
Her fingers positioned and ready.
She's such a tease as she trilled her passionate notes,
Playing songs that someone else wrote.
Her flute gleaming in the spotlight,
I love the way her lips were positioned on that pipe.
Her eyes sparkled as she ran through scales with such ease,
Her melody still haunts my dreams.
The way she blew steady air into her flute was ******,
And she continued to play notes that were chaotic.
Her fingers danced with passion over the keys,
Making me get down on my knees.
I imagined her fingers dancing upon me,
Imagining us in perfect harmony.
She gave me such a thrill,
My body is tingling with chills.
Her lips firm as she played,
Manipulating her mouth to make volume rise and finally fade.
Be mine, you free little bird,
Your song is the only one I heard.
Unleash your melody into me,
Let's make sweet harmony.
I love the way you tease me,
I love the way you play me.
I want my heart to be your flute,
Playing it to your wicked tune.
I love the way you fly,
I want to keep you as my own sweet lullaby.
Be mine, my beloved teasing flutist,
Let your melody and my background tune become sweet bliss.

I was three , no bigger than a west Texas tumbleweed . . . just three .

My mother hung the wash out on the line
and wiped the sweat off her brow with her hand .
Half an hour later the clothes were frozen .
Blue Norther . . . you can see them coming
a hundred miles away .
Wichita Falls , Texas . . . on the Wichita river .

Moses sat on a mountaintop gazing at the promised land but it was out of his hands now .
Leaning on his staff , the one that ate the Pharoh's two serpents . . . sssssssilently a single tear falls to the ground .

No fence could hold me . . . I was over or under in seconds .
A terror at three , a potential runaway .
The police knew me by first name  . . . just three .
The plains of North Texas , jackrabbits , coyotes , rattlesnakes and all . . . were home .

Forty years of desert wilderness ,
till the last man , woman , and child of Egyptian connection had died ,
. . . . . . was such a sacrifice made . . . . . .
Moses was the last to fall .
On a mountaintop of no consequences .

      "Run Rabbit Run"

Nights become bearable when
Your dream is pressed up against you
Softly her heartbeat drowns out every worry.

The once little, little prince,
stood wide-eyed, unto the sunless sky,
there, winged was she,
Rapunzel fair, princess no longer for he.

You see, he doesn't remember now,
how long ago it was he was told,
To find a princess, locked far away,
and if patient be ye, so too will treasure most pure,
be
his own.

And when, after many years traveling hence,
he arrived there upon the scene,
of the long, lonely tower, spiraling up,
there on and until the single window,
opened gently, and residing faintly,
laid a dream, he could not appease,
nay, no matter how much he rubbed his eyes,
Still, did the little prince look up and see,
Fair Rapunzel, in all her resplendent beauty.

Wait, she said, smiling gold,
In just a few years hence,
She laughed, merrily,
Will my hair grow long enough,
for you my dear Prince,
To come on up and truly rescue me.
For now it is good to talk,
and dream and be, for surely still,
must my luck be overwhelming,
with you here, to keep me company.
With just, YOU, here, little prince,
eyes nearly watering, she whispered,
And now not for me to be so lonely.

The little prince's heart, somewhere long gone,
Along the way, had already flittered up,
Though she could scarcely feel it,
With tower keeping them at bay,
Indeed it it land on her doorstep,
And there, long, did it lay.

So for many years, the Little Prince,
And Rapunzel did lay,
Her up high, and he down low,
With her hair, growing more each day.
And he was happy though, he was not sure,
If he was more trapped than her,
encased, but with each days growth,
of her luscious golden hair, did each time,
take a bit of his aching heart, beat by beat,
before mind barely had a say.

And then, alas, a few seasons hence more,
Around the corner was he, into her arms,
Evermore.
But cruel fate did lay, such plans for naught,
For at once her hair doth shed, and wings did she partook,
Yea, Little Prince, said she, Though doeth I love you so,
And the price I paid was dark and grave,
No bargain have I pursued could ever be forsook,
As this, one feeling, oh to fly over stone,
valley, canyon, and brook,
To be free, untethered, beating release,
NO LONGER DO I NEED WAIT,
OH WITHOUT SUCH WASTEFUL WORDS AS PATEINCE!
Now I am my queen, and you,
She looked down softly,
Not even my cook.

And the little prince looked up in awe,
Always believing in that which he was seeing,
awful though was his mind, that, Even still,
as his heart did empty,
did it endeavor, hurriedly quick,
To deny that reality, of waiting for a trick.
I was a game, he thought, but still,
if this be a quirk of god or fate,
Even now, in its very face will I,
Lucifer, be, Agnostic in this,
my hell.

So he closed his red eyes,
as his angel did ascend,
ne'er close did he ever reach,
someone.
Just a story now,
for children,
and growing young men,
Don't wait so long for someone,
you love in a tower,
or else you'll find yourself,
too, A...
Little Prince, not so little,
Anymore.

Tick tock,
goes the clock.
Purr purr,
Goes the refrigerator.
Drip drip,
Goes the sinks occasional drip.
Squeak squeak,
Goes the mouse who's ever so meek.
Woof woof,
Goes the distant dog.
It's quiet now,
Only with occasional sounds.
Solitude,
Sweet, torturous solitude.
Notice how all these sounds are things I knew,
The only thing missing is you.

When I was little,
I wanted to hold the clouds,
to feel them,
to touch the unreachable.

I asked my father if I could,
and he told me,
They were water vapor,
I would never be able to hold them.

But i still reached for the sky,
hoping that he was wrong,
I hoped that maybe someday,
I would rest my head in the clouds.

~

verse 1
in the town of Chateau Thierry,
along the banks of the Marne,
just up the road from Paris,
a’ fore it meets the Seine;
’twas here our soldiers fought
in nineteen-seventeen;
'twas here they took the Kaiser,
in the trenches, rain and mud.
the Great War, then they called it,
here the river ran with blood;
with bayonet and shovel,
here an Allied victory made;
to halt the enemy’s advancement,
here too many made their grave.

instrument of bow and strings,
in composition history sings.
if, one-day strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin!
stories told will ne’er grow old,
tales of courage that build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows despite the dark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power to strike the heart.

verse 2
near the town of Chateau Thierry
in a convent, St Joseph by name
a violin by Francois Barzoni,
a resident luthier by trade.
prized possession of the Sisters,
they tuned well it's strings.
their convent walls withstood the bombs,
though leaving here their mark;
defaced but not destroyed,
and so with grateful hearts,
the Sisters of St Joseph,
for brick and mortar trade,
gathered up their treasures
their convent to remake.

instrument of bow and strings,
with composure history sings.
if, only strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin;
stories told will ne’er grow old,
tales of hope that build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows to light the dark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power; rebuild the heart.

verse 3
from the town of Chateau Thierry,
they advertised their local gem,
“wanted: no strings attached;
no saint expected, no requiem.
just two hands to cherish,
and a patron of our instrument.”
this their prayer, “oh Lord, one wish,
may our search meet no resistance.
may we find a young apprentice,
please reward our long persistence.”
and so they found their debutant;
prayer answered in Saint Louis.
a boy who understood its voice,
with their strings again make music.

instrument of bow and strings,
of your journey history sings.
if, only strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin;
stories told will ne’er grow old,
tales of old they build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows and find your mark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power to soothe the heart.

verse 4
near the town of Chateau Thierry,
along the banks of the Marne;
ply this channel of the masters,
play us a river, Lowell Meyer;
once a boy, become grand-father,
then a treasure to receive;
heirloom placed within your trust,
your prize possession to bequeath
to yet another debutant,
its strings to pluck and bow to draw.
he a master of persistence,
who with practice met resistance;
yesterday’s grandson, beloved progeny;
tomorrow’s hope, an admired prodigy.

instrument of bow and strings,
with clarity your voice still sings.
if, only strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin;
stories told will ne’er grow old,
for these are tales that build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows and make your mark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power to touch the heart.

~

post script.

A violin…  an instrument of hollowed wooded frame, strung with five strings made of gut, played by the drawing of a bow of hair crosswise over strings tuned in perfect fifths; an instrument of song with uniquely, beautiful voice.  Whether played as a violin with symphonic overture in a seventy-piece orchestra in Carnegie Hall, or as a fiddle in a four-piece southern country band at a barn dance down in a Kentucky hollow, in the hands of a violinist… a master… a virtuoso… a fiddler, it becomes an hallowed instrument… of diplomacy… of peace.

When I heard the faint whisperings of story about a nephew’s instrument I pledged to learn the details of its journey.  Charlie obliged, allowing me to interview him one evening early this month.

The instrument came complete with an old typed letter from Lowell Meyer, Charlie’s maternal grandfather, whose family purchased the instrument on his behalf, from the Sisters of St. Joseph when he was yet in middle school in 1923.  An instrument in its own rite, the letter also acts as a legal document, sharing not only the violin’s European heritage and how it came to arrive in these United States, but also dictating its future journey, naming only three possibilities of conveyance.  First, while in the possession of his family, the violin is to be owned by all of Mr. Meyer’s children and their heirs rather than by any one single heir.  Second, it allows a method for its sale should an urgent financial need arise.  And third, it dictates the intent of Mr. Meyers for the violin’s return to its original owner into perpetuity, the Sisters of St. Joseph near Chateau Thierry.  Charlie scanned the letter and emailed it to me, giving me a greater sense of its history and helping to establish its authenticity.   Its making by well known French luthier Francois Barzoni, who unlike the Stradivari family made his hand-crafted instruments for the masses, its survival within the convent walls during the bombardment of the Battle of the Marne and its subsequent journey from Chateau Thierry, to Saint Louis, each detail carrying great significance. As an example of one detail among many, it did not escape the attention of this story lover, the significance of a journey from its setting on one river to a similar setting on another, from along  the banks of the Marne before it spills into the Seine, winding through the fertile rolling hills north of Paris, to the fertile banks of the Missouri at its confluence with the Mississippi in St Louis, two famous rivers, a half a world apart, each with their own folklore of simple people living a simple life, of battles fought by simple people with uncommon valor.

*This simple story of “the violin” is a story worth telling; just one facet of Charlie’s interesting heritage; one which has its own voice, and is a tale that begged to be written.

Horror speaks in silence
    and Fear speaks in signs
              it’s written on my face
                        and on the faces I see.

How did I end up here?

A masked man brought us food.
The smell of it drives us mad in hunger.
We eat like we're crazy.
Devouring it like messy animals.

I see the eyes of superiority
            in the sight of the masked man.
I look at them with deep curiosity.
He looks back with a look of intent.
Deep blue eyes inspect the whole me.
then I realized, everyone, including me
            wears nothing but just two pieces of
                                                      undergarments.                
I quickly cover my well-being,
then he just walks away.

I felt ***** ,
            Weary,
and Cold in this rusty dark place.
Where are we going?
Our future is uncertain.
I felt that our life is for sale,
like animals going to be slaughtered.

Sleep is taking my reality
Hoping that dreams will wash away
            the fear, horror and uncertainty along the way.                      




*© Pax

In the real world
     I am merely a passerby.
Finding no home to call my own.

I walk the dusty ***** streets
                  So lost and all alone.
Why then should it be this way?
Is this the modern way of life?
   Am I to always suffer loneliness
        A life beset by doubt.