I remember my father listening to Brahms in the living room,
Fingers tapping notes on his knees,
That ratty recliner a front row seat;
An island in an ocean of music and a soul
Carried by the ethereal harmony of a
Symphony felt in the bones.
Even when he could no longer raise his arms
And his legs like stones
Rested still at the end of the bed;
When the poison of cancer destroyed all the strength he had,
I watched him still find something sweet
In the music.
They played it on some old radio
And his eyes would close as if
Those symphonies of hope
Could sustain his heart beat
Just a little while
I am his daughter, and I know this
Because I also listen for it.
In the gentle whispering of the Cottonwood leaves
Or the light strain of the Meadowlark on a summer evening,
There are also strings;
The faint echo of a violin.
It rolls in like a river from a valley far away and plays the notes of hope.
I can hear the opening sonata quote something like,
Don’t give in
To the darkness.
A symphony plays in the winds that cascade across the jagged rocks of the mountains.
A symphony plays in the sky.
A symphony rolls in on the waves of the northern seas,
Across the reddened canyons;
The notes they bleed like rain upon the
Parched and desiccated world.
And sometimes, it plays in your heart.
You orchestrate the notes with your hands when you run them through my hair,
And suddenly, from somewhere far away,
I can hear the whispered strings of my own violin,
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all
drops falling steadily
upon a misty world
far more than fifty shades of green
dazzle your senses
trees bushes flowers
dancing in the rain
Apropos a nice rainy day in spring
i almost want to laugh at how much i wanted you
sleepless nights. countless.
wondering if I was even a thought on your mind.
if ever the possibility of us fluttered with one beat.
even if it was for a split second, in a prayer or a curse
you were there. marring everything that i'd built
it's funny. He always gives us what we need.
all i needed was something to sully this fabricated sustenance that i wanted so badly to believe in
here it is.
I had a daily thing to do,
Which hardest to recall,
To consummate the spider
It took a year to fall.
Her webs had hurled the ceiling,
Another one, she caught!
And gave it for the children
When sustenance has brought.
that which does not
for the golden
on the morning altar
until there is
giver and receiver
giving and receiving
that which circles
all is but illusion
released from suffering
what was fractured
will be found.
(In a letter to his wife, Wallace Stevens, confided that writing was "absurd" as well as fulfilling. What of reading the write?)
What makes you read on? Exquisite words? Or
Exquisite thoughts? Ah, exquisite words forming
Exquisite thoughts. At times so beauteous as to be
Painful! Meter clipping along, tremulous tones trilling,
Making the reader thrill in the "Ah, yes!" moment.
Writing poetry is absurd, if you think about it.
An absurdity bore of necessity.
The reading, a veracious devouring
Of sustenance. The substance of souls poured out.
I’ve eaten food yes now my stomach’s full
But why is that irrelevant to this
great hunger in my soul? oh how it pulls
What type of sustenance could I have missed?
Not food not water, no, not great success
not recognition, nay, I have this all
And yet there is some more, I must confess
the possibility that I might fall
So try I might to write a sonnet now
But such is not the will of my sweet soul
I woke at night still thinking wond’ring how
tomorrow I would go achieve my goal
And lo! I painted such a masterpiece
I am content, my soul is now at peace
— The End —