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g clair Mar 2014
half-asleep I'm hearing
the soft and soothing flow
of water's musical soundtrack
in sleepy afterglow

nothing matters,  nothing troubling
and that distant sound is nice
warm springs from hillside bubbling
through snow and thawing ice

blue morning came too early
into my chilly room
kiss the new day darling  
from your cozy warm cocoon

and still this brook
is babbling, a semiconscious stream
waters from the highest mount
cascading into dream

still in semi darkness
wishing wake would go away
a pang of something,  sadness
way too tired right now to pray

in my state, no words to utter
sensing he was ever near
wanted me to " simply listen, love
to living waters here"

moving water it's own music
crystal tones from babbling brook
if my ears could fish the woodlands
rushing rivers they would hook....

senses fully wakened wonder
what on earth  that sound?
for you know there's neither mountain
nor a stream for miles around.

No resin fountains flowing
nor a pond with motored fall
only snow and none was going
far too cold to melt at all.

So I sat up rather quickly
could a pipe have rot and burst?
and my stomach feeling sickly
at the thought, and how my thirst

perhaps a water vandal
running down the bathroom aisle
best go check that faulty handle
it's been going for a while.

rising up, my ears were scoping
leaning head toward window sill
softly stepping toward the place
where it was playing for me still

And what would I discover
in the fir tree just out yonder
but a flock of bubbling blackbirds
in the branches and I ponder...

blackbird
babble in light of day
teach this broken heart to learn to sway
come what may

you became the water and my worries washed away....
water wash my sad away
stand in stillness, listen to them pray...
all my days...
g clair Mar 2014
have you ever felt shot into space
with nothing to hold to without any trace
of the one who was always around
who could laugh really hard and without any sound

and you fear that someday he will see
that you're mind is a strange one indeed, yet it's free!
to be up in the air and then down
hear that music that plays like a carnival sound

and it's something that's deep in your soul
from the day you first met he's been making you whole
cause he won't let you feel afraid,
fix you up when you're ****** and knows his first aid

Five of us kids to take care of
and all within seven short years
Leno then Beano then Bonzo then Labo then Damo
all laughter and tears.

It seems that we share the same feelings
about our ol' dad, and it's said
much better to share them while we are alive
than to wait until after we're dead.
  
and so I will write about Daddy
and because I am long with my word
my poems I will say can go on for a day,
and a night or so that's what I've heard.

To Tony, Loretta would cater
she cooked for the man who would date her
they married and so, and what do you know
three children would come along later.

Born October two four, nineteen hundred
and twenty eighth year of our Lord
at home, the first child of Tony and Rhetts
baby Vinny, was cut from the cord.

This sweet little Vincent Morrone
raised up in by my Nonna and Tony
quickly stuck in his ways, from the start of his days
and could size up the truth from a phony.

He grew up in old Jersey City
where he polished the width of his witty
had a sister named Claire who remembers him there
dear old dad, handsome lad, and she's pretty.

Their brother was born sometime later
our sweet uncle Jerry Morrone
Handsome and good and well liked in the hood
got those genes and that same funny bone.

 After Highschool, staff sergeant in Air Force
guiding take offs and landings, his post
Four years of St Pete, put him smart on the street  
and he left for the likes of our coast.

He was offered a job down in Jackson
elementary dear Watson, it's said
he would fall for another young teacher, a screecher
whose sassiness got to his head

He married our mother, that's Jacquie
they really were some kind of a pair
she knew he was smart, liked his looks and his heart
and respected the good that was there.

So five days a week Dad would teach
and he liked those nine months of the year
but he lived for the summers at Jenkinson's beach
where that salt water pool was so clear.

in a torn old white sweatshirt and plaid shorts
he was sharing a Bud at the fence
loved his mower and pool, and that backyard was cool
much more like a park, you would sense.

we know how he hated the gurlic
and that onions would just make him hurlick
my mother would never use any such thing
he could drive her to sing like Steve Urlick.
( did I do that?)

No qualms about eating cold hotdogs
and cheddar in chunks from red foil
liked his eggplant cut thin, and his gravy could win
a blue ribbon, the secret? No spoil!!

Could deliver a joke like Bob Newhart
or a pun just for fun was sublime
he was always aware, but for crowds, didn't care
unless it was harmony time.

Best one on one at a party
but the life when it came to his cracks
made small talk okay, but preferred just to stay
to the side and be watching the acts.

Old Spice and that weekender stubble
did his thing and his speaking was soft
he was never a man to cause trouble
but he'd tell you when something was off.

McDonalds and corn on the cob
smoked a pipe, did not curse, and was never a slob
though I know he was not always neat
he was clean, never smelled, never spit in the street.

taught us never to take wooden nickels
and he loved a fresh jar of those kosher dill pickels
drove a large Orange bug in the day
with a driver side  SPEBSQSA

he wiped off my face with his thumb
that he'd lick first to clear away jelly and crumb
and he'd always be there in a pinch
if I needed his help, he was there, not a Grinch!

He was always the Good Humored one
bought us Ice cream and took us to places for fun
an occasional "word to the wise
you've cashed in your chips
and don't hand me your lies."

and the one who would walk me not once
but twice down the aisle of heartache and gloom
as a wife I have failed, a dunce
yet dismissing that elephant out of the room.

and tried not to laugh at my lot
at my barrenness, troubles and all of that snot
took me back to this place for some peace
never charged me a dime, not a landlord with lease
but a man with the mercy he knows
he understood sometimes that's just how life goes

and suddenly everything's changed
I am fifty two times around, feeling deranged
and it's not because I need a crutch
feeling lost in this world  
which I've lived in and such

but that I have been shot into space
having lost what I loved, it's my dad's loving face
and I'm here in the house that he bought
it's the one where we loved and the one where
we fought

and I cried here at length at the table
feeling shot into space, as if I am unable
to cope with the loss of my dad,
with the loss of his smile  and the voice that he had

and the place that he had in my life
in my heart....in my head...in my mind...So I climbed
to room where my dear daddy slept
and I laid on that bed and I wept and I wept
feeling shot into space I recalled that man's face
and I reached for the  tissues he kept in that place

and in one second flat, as I blew
from the nose of his likeness,  I knew and it's true
I was beamed back from space
into someone's embrace
and believe me, as if my dad knew...

For my father was known to be punny
always quick with the wit, such a honey
he would tell me to write, for it was his delight
that his children were his kind of funny.

I am never to think I am odder
for I am what I am, my dad's daughter
I hear distant strumming and now my dad humming
the theme song from Welcome Back Kotter.

http://youtu.be/5VlGyMG0ksg
My dad was a teacher and enjoyed music, jokes, puns, crow sounds, barbershop harmony, golfing, wearing certain colors which made him look good,  his own family, grandchildren, crossword puzzles. spy novels, movies. hotdogs, eggplant parm, radio talk shows, good food at the same restaurant, the Chapter House. Singing Barbershop harmony a tear jerker song or movie, peace and quiet. mowing the lawn and working in the yard, his car, a little whiskey sour or a cold Bud in the summer. BBQ out back. Football. Baseball. Ice cream. root beer floats. smoked a pipe ( the smell of sweet pipe tobacco still reminds me), applesauce with cinnamon , apricot jam, my cookies.  etc.
g clair Feb 2014
you have to had been there when I was listening to a certain song....
count one two three one two three
war/ming
  ( F,2.3.F 2,3)
         bree/zes  
           (up A.-3     down E-3)
blow through the trees
(F-G-A-F 2)
to  
(high F)
greet me
(down to  C, C 2=3)
on our
(up D 3, down A 3)
porch swing
(up C 3, down A 3)
meet me
(F-G-)
out there
(A-F )
tonight.
( D-F)

well you have to count 123,123 and the letters are the notes, up or down...

we'll sing
favorites
like when we
ripped
a chorus
I do love them
and better in your
own words

tell me stories
that I
will keep in
my notebook
I do
love
them
promise
I always will.

Hold me closely
into the
evening
hours
we will
sit and
rock to the beats
and blues

warrrming  breeeezes
blow through the trees
to
greet me
on our
porch swing
meet me
out there
tonight

If you won't be
able to come
out
to meet me
I'll be waiting  
even as if
you are
I hear it in Italian and it's really playing beautifully on my head.
g clair Feb 2014
Love would hold him in His hands,
a man whose field of knowledge spans
across the cultures of the lands
whose heart and soul He understands.

And Love would choose this lowly one
of humble heart, a fallen son
and one who's felt the pain of loss
who's slept in fields of stone and moss.

And brought him to this place of rest
where he can ponder what is best
to build his home with rusty nail
or lose the things which can't avail?

To spend his time in search of that
which fills the hollow places, at
the moment of his greatest need
a shoot broke through that tiny seed.

A drop of water from the sky
had reached the ground and fed the rye
which grew into the Living bread
and fed the famine in his head.

And Love would fill his hungry soul
with simple Truth, a burning coal
and from this rock, pure streams will flow
the living water makes men whole.

We, like sheep, have gone astray
and each one wanders his own way
it's freedom call and so, what if
our freedom calls from yonder cliff?

The grass is tall, it waves hello
while waves crash on the rocks below
the Pasture man, he knows the land
and saves his friends from sinking sand.

He leaves the flock to find the few
who've wandered out to catch a view
of life beyond the broken fence
a man feels loved and then repents.
g clair Feb 2014
My lingering lament
my stuttering sonnet
my book of bewilderment
has your name on it.
g clair Feb 2014
share with me the highlights of your day
and if you choose not to say much
I will listen anyway.
Well I know that we all need some time alone
time to simmer, time to think
and time to not pick up the phone

and I need time to trust in what I feel
am I just thinking there's a distance
or is it something that is real?
It's hard to tell, just now, which is the case
I am not much for deciphering
your moods, it's not my place.

A vacant beach and somewhere a dog's bark
watched a full moon light the ocean
and the beach as it grew dark.
Pedaled past two lovers on a blanket in the sand
it's been so long that I've forgotten
the very memory of your hand.

Share with me of the doldrums of your day
but if you choose not to say much
I will listen anyway.
or just walk with me in silence, hold my hand
and if you're wanting not to touch me
I'll begin to understand
g clair Feb 2014
Ears hear, eyes read, mind processes, heart feels, tongue speaks and/or  hands type/sign or motion.

The cycle was set in place with creation.

In a forum such as this, people share and those of us in this cyber coffee shop read.  

A miracle is communication, and the degree to which the speaker/writer/artist needs to be seen and appreciated varies.

To some, the need for recognition trumps his perceived need to create.

To others, the appreciation seems the icing on the cake of their heart's musings.

Others may be embarrassed in the spotlight, but still appreciate the attention.

Nevertheless, the miracle of communication, the cycle and mechanism through which man can share his art, as well as the wonderful freedom to connect and respond as freely as one chooses is often overlooked.

Taken for granted...abused, neglected, uncelebrated.

We can appreciate simply or we can use this communication to receive, process and question and learn things about other people, their experiences, thoughts and beliefs.

Their input serves to stimulate our thinking and either shut us down and turn us away, or send us on adventure of mind and spirit.

Words  have the power to excite the soul and find reason for existence.

They can also hurt, stemming from situation, temperament, past hurts internalized, or out of misunderstanding.

Our own vulnerabilities/sensitivities from past violation of our boundaries  leave us open for hurt. Lack of boundaries...a cause for so many problems in communication, and yet....poetry seems to invite us in for tea, to make us feel understood . Comments welcome. We hope people are nice. I hope people are nice. ( steps aside from podium) You all seem nice. I close with these words.

I truly appreciate communication, especially through this comment feature and the channel ( my laptop)  through which it exists, not simply the internet.

I direct all thanks to my parents and ultimately my husband, my lord and my maker, the one and only Supernatural Jesus Christ. ( nod to guy in the plaid shirt over there, who also goes by Jesus). Almost done. The following a poem I wrote about what I had thought to be a bully, but truly my own bullheadedness.

" Shooting The Bull"

Once owned a Ford Taurus though often it's said
a Ford on the roadside is probably dead.
I never let stuff like that go to my head
I know how it is to be down.
Ran my hand over the gun metal grey
if it was a horse we'd have galloped away
but the oil was blackened and so that fine day
I decided to take it to town.

My husband was known for mechanical skill
took pride in his work, though I battled his will
I knew he was right about everything, still
I wanted to have my own way.
It was his contention that I was a pain
he often made comments that seemed so inane
I knew that he thought I was lacking a brain
at the technical end of the day.

He said he would change it the next Saturday
still I thought to myself,  "There's a much better way
at Jiffy **** service is good, and they say
that it takes them no more than ten minutes".
Five minutes to get there and five minutes in
they offered to clean up my ***** engine
I gladly accepted, and paid for the gin
or whatever that mixture had in it.

Back at the house, feeling quite satisfied
a little bit nervous on account of his pride
but the Taurus can't wait, 'cause what if it died?
and think of the money we saved!
Well he wasn't at home, so then I could relax
I got dressed for work, while rehearsing the facts
then drove to my work, and in one hour max
the Taurus it bucked, then it caved.

Squeaked into the place where my money was earned
I called him and naturally he was concerned
we had it towed out, I felt angry and burned
now I needed a brand new transmission.
I try not to dwell on the past or road ****
we all have our issues, they bother me still
I'm often quite stubborn, and always a pill
but once in a while now, I listen.
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