Gut drawn across history, reaching to this day and a time,
teaching to play the sublime,
Where no grain has gone through that passage, unchanged
And some wait at the threshold, not ready, unsteady.
There is a tug o'war back and forth,
till time always wins.
Time or forgiveness erases my straight forward sins.
All that bends lined up just so,
fast or slow,
no one alive knows!
Just how it was meant to be
so let it...
Can you catch them, the leaves of fall,
is there chase enough in you to play with them all,
as the sounds of Autumn, have the pace,
which invites you play face to face with
what you hold, end of the rainbow,
Summers gold, treasured,
with subtle pleasure.
Where is your wisdom, where is the care, you leave behind
to find some solemn place of peace,
in a world that won't let you practice your passion,
it is after all out of fashion,
so bow a little more
and I will listen for the wind,
which may blow your notes like leaves and sheetmusic,
like laundry on the lines,
which you have to memorize or read,
in the cold
until the sun sets, the lights dim and the candle wick
Still you dream of summer.
Sitting in the outdoors on a chair built for two,
I sit alone, so much to see and to hear,
as there is music playing, but I do not know from where,
the bees buzz and travel like they can feel the vibrations,
dragonflies dance in pairs, wingtips touching the sky and clouds,
hummingbirds find the flowers sweeter than before,
is that a cello out of doors?,
but the traffic on the street, fails to compete,
and the music goes on and I am replete,
but I listen still, to drink in more,
I would rather be no other place than where I am now
I close my eyes, and keep them that way as
I fear surprises among other things,
but this music is filled with the comfort it brings
the empty space beside me in this double chair,
if the empty space were to leave what would I have?,
feed me in my loneliness,
fill me, though I may be alone,
I will be able to share,
the Joy of caring,
with any who come near and love what I love best,
but my emptiness moves with me,
when music, like love, is a test of trust.
The rocks meant to trip me up make my feet find footing,
as to step on the wrong rock means to fall
on my face
or land displaced,
oh the hard, hard heart-ed rocks,
my fingers lose skin,
don't trust my eyes
don't trust my feet
don't trust my memory,
to get me home,
I have to forget where I was so I can know to keep
going, because I need to go,
to the water,
the clear water,
it gives me credence,
when the water runs clear,
I drink it in and I am revived,
so pour this rocky music into me and
when I wake up, I will take up where life
has left off. And give it another day on the rocky slopes
that rocks my hopes,
there is no easy life.
Are your days dragged on for many hours past twenty four?
They at work want you to work more for less,
you walk in the door to change your dress,
and out you go again, so you pack you wallet with
cash, credit and disdain,
you walk slow as to shuffle not to be resistant,
so you actually see something near or distant
that resembles life in the normal lane,
instead your ups take you down,
from there all you do is look up,
up and away.
The music mocks your life
your significant other half,
is more than you will ever be,
there is no end to the mockery,
so pick up your bow,
and reach not for an arrow,
but strike your muscles and your nerves,
to see if you are alive after all,
for only fools imitate the wolves by
howling at the blood moon.
Or jaywalk without looking,
or stay on the treadmill from hour one beyond twenty four.
Time, the monotone and remains the same,
it us who fill the hours, for shame, at the pace.
Oh jump and run and hide as it has all been a dream,
the ogres are in the hills and trolls are under every bridge,
the master walks the fence line banging his club every twenty paces,
to see if any faces peek out from the shrubs which need trimming
and he sends his dogs to ferret out the weasel faced boys,
and the pink pigs with pigtails,
while we hid in the oak on the hill watching the sun stand
stock still and the tall trees dust the sky as they move in the breeze,
making room for the heart shaped moon,
for my love, my love...
we will soon be apart and no glue will hold us
and once we will be together again it will
be like we never parted,
but you left me so soon at a terrible cost, on my heart strings
each butterfly that goes by lightly
reminds me of you,
each single cotton ball cloud,
that floats my way,
I wait for it to come over-head,
no, I run to where it is so,
can see your face gently in the shadows
and contours but you are playing at hiding while
seek your beauty in all things,
that we said were ours and did not possess,
because it all belongs to God.
As do you.
Sadly I must wait here for my time,
I will listen to this music, as I am by myself
lone cellist playing
while I hold it all in,
please come close before he plays the last staff,
the last bar, the last note,
then I will rest, sleep, dream and float,
on the notes he has played as they
carry me as close to you,
so I am sure to catch your tears.
Final Thoughts (Incomplete)
The measure of the flesh is found in six pieces, of these cello suites.
The measure of the heart for music is opened in these six pieces of mystery.
They that sound, from time to time, that they were composed yesterday.
Inspired by listening to Cello Suites No. 1 through No. 6 by JS Bach by Various artists, especially Pau (Pablo) Casals and reading the Cello Suites by Eric Siblin, great read, if you like that sort of thing.
I think, I know that this poem will be in progress for a long time, until I find some understanding, of music theory or learn to play the violoncello. Started 20130825 finished 20130829