It begins with
nervous laughter,
creaking springs,
builds to
loud supplications
to Jesus and God,
ends in final
melting moans.

Funny how little
the notes vary;
more classical
than baroque;
more advertising
jingle than
hallelujah.

The simple sounds
of who we are,
where we come from,
what we do
to each other

played on mortal organs
by ardent amateurs,
overheard through
thin motel walls.

   - mce

The day was clear, a touch too hot. Summer’s end was drawing near.
Sidewalks vendors were making their pitches, selling their artisanal wares.
That was when I saw my girl, a vision in a pale green dress.
Blood red lips, a fair complexion and long black tresses framed her face.
Where and when could it have been that I had seen her like before?
Thought took me back to Hunter Mountain, late in the summer of Seventy four.
Back then I saw one just like this, a beauty with a special grace
With blood red lips and fair complexion and long dark hair that framed her face.
She wore the tartan of her clan as she competed in the dance.
Pipers played and tenors sang; it was the substance of romance.
A rare beauty, ripe for taking, if one was brave enough to chance….
The memory was broken then, my daughter touched me on the arm.
“There you are Dad, where have you been? I was sent to look for you by Mom.”
We had lingered at the fair, wandering separately among the stalls.
It’s Time now to sit down to our meal and share good wine as darkness falls.

to apply oneself to some kind of usefulness
now there is a lifetimes toil
the search and seek of a poets lot
and all that written down in words