for Ashley and Trent

Joyous tears lie just ahead,
for Trent and Ashley
will seal their love today.

Pipes, strings, brass and voices
will soar beneath
Saint Peters towering nave

and we'll rise as one to affirm
their pledge of love and faith.

They met in band at Belleville East
and always seemed to know

that on some spring morn in June
they would stand at the altar
to vow their lives to constancy.

We all knew it too and today
we would be no other place

for hope unbounded rules the day
and echoes in our grateful hearts.

Sinbad’s sea-battered ship was
poised on the edge of annihilation,
The Sultan's brow furrowed with curiosity,
then without warning
Scheherazade stilled her narrative
and lived to see the morning sun.

When the moon and stars next owned the sky,
Sinbad was snatched from the jaws of death
then the saga of Prince Kalandar
seized the king's soul with wonder
but Scheherazade left the tale unfinished
and sang with the birds at dawn.

Rimsky-Korsakoff  turned the pages at his desk -
consumed by Scheherazade’s charms
then etched his pen across the waiting staves:
The violin must weave her spell once more
and bassoon and oboe take the prince’s part.

Trombone and trumpet led the martial call
and all the rest enlisted for the cause.
Russian bravura fused with the seductive allure
of exotic tunes born of the dust on the silken road.

A sonic whirlwind filled Saint Paul Church,
as winds and tremolos grew to cyclonic force.
A wall of brass completed Kalandar’s tale.
capped by an exuberant clash of cymbal plates.

The silence yielded to tender violins
chanting a hymn to the princess in all her grace.
Tambourine and winds wove a tapestry
of her debonaire and most virtuous prince.

As the final pizzicato chord faded, the Sultan
turned to Scheherazade with tear-filled eyes
and beheld his immortal princess
and she her valiant and eternal prince
and so it would be as long as night preceded dawn.

She kissed away his tears of joy and whispered in his ear,
“My beloved husband, I will tell you stories forever.
Tomorrow you shall learn of the Feast at Baghdad.”

in memoriam Woodrow (Woody) Rifenburgh*      

The soft purr of a Piper Cub
drifted over Italy's southern hills.
Soul stirred by the landscape’s song,  
the young army pilot gently spoke.

“It’s mighty peaceful up here.”

Touching wheels to the tarmac,
Woody shed his flight suit
for an engineer’s desk
and placed a viola beneath his chin.

For three score years
Woody molded horsehair and wire into string song
steadying the orchestra’s midriff
with the vibrations of his spirit.

On Christmas Eve he played for the coming child,
fell stricken and flew his last flight
on instruments at Memorial.  

Early New Year’s morn one could almost hear
the faint soft purr of a Piper Cub
as it banked to the right around the moon
and merged with the waiting heavens.

For Denis Joe*

Alas, poor Pluto
I knew him slightly
Dangling out there
On the sun system's edge
Unsung by Holst
Who knew him not at all.

Furl browed tribunes smack their gavels
And in a nano - second
Planetary glory dashed to asteroids.
Mighty Pluto busted to dwarfhood!

[Brief moment of silence]

Well, the dwarves will have to have
Their own music now -
Nothing Earth shattering
like THE PLANETS.
A humbler essay, say a trio
For tuba, autoharp and cello.
Modest but catchy tunes
For little orbiters and shakers:

XENA (warrior princess)
CERES (goddess of grain)
PLUTO (mythical silver smith)
CHARON (underworld boat jockey)

Oops, almost missed the big send off.
There he goes now with Charon at the oars.

          Arrivederci

                little

           ­           fellow.

                              SNIFF!

Ouataga raised his arms to the sky
in offering for his people -
prepared to be ripped from life
by the claws and teeth of the Piasa

    The monstrous bird with blood red eyes
    and bearded chin soared above the bluffs
    in search of a solitary brave
    to devour for his evening meal.

Throughout the cycling of the whole moon
Ouataga had fasted and prayed
for a Piasa slaying plan.
The Great Spirit had come at last in a dream
and now the trap was set.

    The great monster gliding on thermals,
    drifted over the rise,
    clouding the bluff bluff with his shadow
    fixed his crimson eyes on Ouataga
    standing alone in the clearing.

    His monster wings pummeled the air
    and he began his ******* swoop of death.

Obeisant to their young chief's dream,
twenty braves concealed
in a circle of bush and trees,
sent their poison shafts flying
straight to the center of the glade.

    The ravenous Piasa
    baring teeth and talons,
    never saw the rain of arrows
    rupture his skin - pouring venom
    into his murderous veins.

Ouataga, untouched by talon or arrow,
smiled as the Piasa writhed
and fell dead as a stone at his feet.

Grateful tribesmen embraced their chief
who painted the monster's effigy
on a bluff by the Father of Waters
where every passing brave from that time forth
shot contemptuous arrows at its loathsome face.

*March, 2008

I look to the east
    beyond the Catskill ridges
        bathed in dawn light hues.

We know the invisible nurse tree
for what it used to be
before that windy night that
spun and tore it from its moorings.

The tortured Bigleaf Maple roots
shaped in hollow colonnades
having nursed for decades
on a once proud hemlock
brutally humbled to the forest floor
and now consumed by elemental time.

It's Mother Gaia's eternal story -
present tree from yesterday's death
which in time will bequeath its torso
to unborn generations hungry
for a fallen trunk - ripe for suckling.