In the name of understanding, a preface:
Lecture hall’s crowded
Half a mile away
Poet reads poems
Poet say’s
“We all have poems inside us
Raw material”
Poet continues
“Here is a list of tools to use
To think about
For your raw material”

How To Write Poetry:
1. Be egotistical.
2. Always positive. No violence.
3. Short poems of time.
4. Time is everything.
5. Nouns
6. Scotland is inspirational.
7. More nouns
8. She said faith.
9. More nouns
10. Lament yourself
11. The Cello In The Corner
12. Lists
13. Questions.

I dreamed you came aboard
to commend me to the sea
and I dreamed you rode a horse

to your wedding sidesaddle
even though the only thing
you let between your legs

was the melancholy strings
of the cello, you with your instinct
for music and dangerous suitors

I still place to this day what is left
of the afternoon in care of your hands
kissed by so many strange men

whose names you can't remember
on the long nights we spend
together without sleeping

in the same bed alone we are
dreaming the dreams
we dream when all love is lost.

Sing.
Mama's voice chimes bells.
Daddy's words raise hell.
The spell of music speaks doors into the night.
She steps onto the moonlight highway.
The melodies frozen in her ears from before
thaw and play their instruments
bringing life to dream-singers.
It's no coincidence
she was born premature.
It seems everything in her life has come early,
so she set her clocks ahead
and listened to the bells chime,
something like mama's voice.
Her home is a choice,
but not hers.
Instead she stirs the *** of muses
mixing salve for all the bruises,
not to her skin, he's not that stupid,
but for her bleeding heart
and broken mind.
Sing.
Purse your lips and cover your ears.
Conjure a tune from down in your belly
and make **** sure you guard all the exits.
Close your eyes and let the medicine
of cello strings and cymbals
back up the voice of your bones.
Don't let the melody presume to take words.
Your mind is caught up, trapped by the pain.
Just let soul **** tumble and fall
and rise, and climb and stall
and leave it all behind.
Let mama's screams blend in with crescendos.
Let go of this world.
Dip your toes in the timbre of streams.
Hands over your ears, don't forget!
Don't forget your form.
Forget the violent storms.
And if you're spun,
spin into helices.
Your DNA twisting into treble clefs,
hug the transformation close.
Who knows? You may sprout wings.
Sing;
If only a half-hearted whisper.
Sing yourself to sleep tonight.
And hope mama's voice still chimes in the morning.

What have I done?
I've unleashed Quincy Valero into The Big Bad City, upon Greenwich Village for the first time
The 177 express, round trip
To Port Authority
To the A train to Canal

We missed our stop
Had to walk from Soho to Washington Square Park
But along the way we saw artists and galleries
Head shops and street performers
Hobos and junkies

"We made it"
"We in this *****!"
Quincy said as we walked through the arches

We saw a multitude of creatures
An artist drawing floral murals with chalk
Meditating Buddhists
A cello player playing for a meal
A drummer drumming for money to get back home
A jazz band
A clarinet player
Writers scribbling down whatever came to mind

We saw beautiful women everywhere
"Look, my ten, your two"
Quincy said nodding to a **** brunette wearing a sundress walking by

We got coffee at The Third Rail coffee shop
We met lovey dovey couples and a girl poet sipping espresso

Treading down Bleaker to Sullivan to Macdougal to Huston
*** shops, leather and studs, ****** and flavored lubes
"This **** reminds me of Saw"
Quincy said with a laugh
"Too much for your threshold aye?"
I said nudging him

We passed a guy selling vinyl on the street
"How much for the Charlie Parker record?" I asked
He took the record out and inspected it
"Five bucks" he said
"How long you gonna be here, like till what time?" I asked
"Oh I don't live by time or numbers" he answered
"Time ain't your mast huh?" I laughed
"Nope, you cant spell T-I-M-E without M-E" he said
Quincy and I looked at eachother with a grin
"I'll be back, if I'm not here before you leave good luck in your ventures" I said as we walked away
"Thanks brother enjoy the day" he said smiling and waving

We ate to Papaya Hot dogs
Best in the city
Then to the pool hall

Now folks, it is common knowledge where I'm from the Quincy Valero is the local pool shark
He can break and sink three *****
He can jump over your ball and get his in
He can shoot behind his back with one hand

Playing with him is a guaranteed loss
But I never cared, I just like playing
We talked and laughed about all the stupid nonsense back at home
And planned our next move

We went to The Blue Note, the best jazz club in the city
The Dizzy Gillespie All Star Band was playing that night
But it was too expensive for both of us so we went on to St. Mark's place

More head shops
More *** shops
And book stores, clothing stores
Punk things in Search and Destroy, record stores
All that good stuff

It was getting late
Back to Bleaker to start drinking
First stop, a little pub
The bartender was a gorgeous blonde, sweet as could be
We ordered two beers
She seemed to be having trouble with the tap
"Sorry guys it's a little foamy, next rounds on me"
We were amazed by that because back home all the bartenders couldn't care less if we got a whole mug of foam
We clinked glasses and took that first cool icy sip
So nice on such a hot day

"Ya know dude, this is it this is perfect" Quincy said
"What you mean?" I asked
"Well this is a great time, I'm on vacation right now and were here exploring and relaxing and enjoying the moment, this moment" he said with his beer hovering over his mouth

Quincy always talked about "This"
This moment
This time
This feeling
This thing

"This" is that time when you're in the moment
That moment of complete and total encumbrance
When you're wrapped up in what you'r doing because you love it and you're happy
The moment you live for
The moment you want to last forever
This moment
This right here
Not then, not before or after
But right now, this
We lived our lives trying to to make this happen every second of everyday
Living it up

Quincy took me to Artichoke Pizza
And my God, it was immaculate
A nine in wide, nine inch long and half inch thick slice of heaven
It was a mixture of crunchy, gooey, savory goodness
I highly recommend it

Then back to the bars
Wicked *****'s
Triona's
Off The Wagon
The Bitter End
GMT
The Red Lion
Cafe Wha?
1849

Beer
Wine
***
Whiskey
Scotch on the rocks
Bourbon

Smoking electronic cigarettes down cobble stone roads
Passing hipsters, college students and tweakers
Locals and tourists
"Out of my way you tourist *******" I yelled frantically pushing my way passed them with Quincy trudging behind

You can always spot a tourist because they got their cameras, their ***** packs and their head looking up saying "ooo look at the building and that one!" taking snap shots in awe

We walked to The V-club
As we walked up to the entrance a little old lady in a wheel chair called out to us, "Are you two brothers?"
We laughed and said "no, were best friends and next door neighbors"
"Oh, well you too look very similar, very young" she said
"Yeah we're both twenty one" Quincy said
"You live around here?" I asked
"Right over there" she said pointing to the building across the street
She told us about how the building was falling apart and how all the law students got booted out leaving the little old lady and one other person living in the nine floor heap
"Back in the day there were river rats in their the sized of cats, but now we only have mice" she said
"I'm being moved though, whenever the land lords and the officials decided where" she added
She had some sort old senior citizen perk that allowed her to be taken care of
She then started to spit some of her poetry from thirty years ago, perfectly from memory
It was full of truth, insight and hope
We were floored by this wheelchair bound geriatric
She was a a retired barmaid, a poet, and an ex-lounge singer
Her name was Tracy Warren

The three of us walked into the V-club
I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir
And Quincy got a draft Brooklyn Lager
While pulling out a stool a spilled my wine all over the wooden table
"****" I said as everyone in the bar watched me put my face in my palms
I got paper towels and cleaned up my mess while the bartender leaned over to Quincy and said "If you don't tip me that will be your last drink ever in here"
"Okay" Quincy said as he walked over to me laughing at my expense
"If it was Burgundy I'd be in tears" I said with a half serious frown

I went to the bartender and apologized and asked sheepishly if I could possibly get a refill

"You spilled your wine?" he asked with sarcasm
"Yeah" I said
"And you want me to give you another?" he asked
"Well, I mean I don't know if that's okay or not that's why I'm asking" I said
"We don't, it isn't okay, you have to buy another one" he said with the most insulting tone I've ever heard
"Okay" I said with disdain

"**** this guy" Quincy and I both said
I left the remaining wine dripping off the table
Quincy ****** all over the bathroom
He finished his beer and we left without tipping that bearded-high and mighty- *******
We said goodbye to Tracy and she told us to enjoy every moment and to get home safely

We went to one more bar, had one more drink and headed home
But on the way to the train we got stopped by a ***
"Hey you give me money I know you got it" he yelled at Quincy
"Na man, hes broke trust me" I said to end the oncoming confrontation
"No yous lying i know it" he said
"Na, see those shoes? I got him those shoes, fifty five bucks" I told him
"Stop putting me on" he yelled
Then some white knight hipster wearing thick rimmed glasses and a green flannel stepped in and said "What's going on here? You picking on my friend?" While putting his arm around the *** mocking him and making trouble for us
"This ******* won't give me any money for my troubles" he told the hipster
"Come on man, give 'em something" he said to Quincy
"Dude, he has no money he spent all he had today" I said to the hipster and the ***
"He's a trust fund kid, he gets it from mommy and daddy" I said winking to Quincy
"Trust fund kid?!" the hipster said
"Trust fund kid!" said the ***
"TRUST FUND KID, TRUST FUND KID" screamed the hipster, the *** and myself laughing at Quincy making a scene
Then me and Quincy just walked away throwing our heads back howling at the full moon, drunk and exhausted heading for the subway  

The subway to Port Authority
Our legs, our feet and our ***** were killing us
We just wanted to sit

We could not for the life of us find our gate
We got misdirections from officers, other public transportation patrons
Thank God for this one janitor for pointing us in the right direction out of our wild goose chase
And ***** the guy who I asked "Hey man do you know where I can find the gate for the 177 express?"
And all I got was a blank indifferent stare
"WELL **** ME RIGHT?!" I yelled in his face

Finally we got on the line for our bus
We saw some weaselly looking guy cutting the line until he got booted to the back of the line
As he passed us we both looked at his and said "Weet, get meerkatted scumbag"
He had to wait for the next bus, whenever that was

The bus ride home felt like an eternity
But we made it
We had to walk down the unpaved dirt road to our street

We did it
We took on The Village
Sailed through the bars
Walked the streets
Met cool, hip people
Made memories
And now we have stories to tell

Outside my door a cawing crow
of blackened wings and indigo
delivered by night's shivering storm.
The wind and winter's howling call,
scattered nests and down the feather falls.
Crack of limbs, cold and bare branched
mesquite leaves and needles spiral to the ground.
In a swooping field he flies into the tallest pines
deep and slow, the trees creak
wild in cello tones.

Chocolate with strawberries or raspberries
Vanilla from vanilla beans
Lemon cello cake from the cheesecake factory
Great travel
Amazing museums and theatre
wonderful books and literature
The tears that get dried from kisses
He's like this and so much more
I am addicted to him because I love him
He loves me

C@rainbowchaser2021

There's a man I know
I'd name him, only,
I'm not sure it's my place,
he views the world in music
music as the voice of angels
the language of the heavens
he's an old snowball of a guy
his black skin cracked at the lips and fingers
and white foam coating the corners of his leathery lips
He reminds me of my late grandfather
a soldier who fell to Parkinson's
He had been playing flute,
cello,
violin,
piano,
and conducting since the age of five
I bought two CD's from him for seven bucks
and **** it was pretty **** good,
and I don't even listen to that type of music,
I found out he lives in a group home
mentally disabled in some way or another
he said he dreams of owning his own house
and his own car,
he dreams that one day,
everybody will have heard his music,
and I hope he reaches those dreams
if anybody ever deserved to
it's the music man

her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
that my rages there die

it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring 
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her 
that my rages there die

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been borne in this way

donkey in the barn who dreams of gold,  O wind upon his beloved's ears
where ruby thighs of folded flesh and blood of wars comes Spring

odd and beautiful flowers are sprung

braids of mud embrace the skin of those who bray on the knee of their masters
where rivers of blood the Buddha swims pink fizz and whirling bone
such tears sublime is leadgun simple clowned and winged socratic
godself poison mimicry of war's shred and burr let the hearts and minds fall droplet to ground
let the war dead drink their own rain
oval is the yawn of the sun and burly shadows weep sockets
where new flowers shall grow odd and beautiful pollen 
shall spring

children dream of trapeze birds laughing grinning rising falling at last into the ground 
how they learn that splendor and love is  ironic ascension 

odd and beautiful flowers 
thunderous rivers of blood the Bluebird sings the echoes
let the Bluebird sing of death no less than the crack of birth from egg
are sprung
oddly flowers beautiful
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
     may the fat bees strum and wild ponies make love,
and baby birds grow big in kind hands of powerful trees
     may the meadow where she lies
pray through all, who need, there be pollen of eyes that hear
 
pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
I am mighty upon the breast my true dreams press
but when she weeps at my inconsolable rages
an angel I wish would swim bursts into me naked 
here is a rain from my thoughts where she walks 
with her cello and my bow
Limber seas and mountain dew blood of many tenderly writhe
viscous streams the dove in heaven tells sadly in sleep bends down the  brow each new soldier child 

pale flower godmath raiment lay me rise me
let the Bluebird sing of death
let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands trying to say goodbye 
let the wardead lift up their mouths their oval grins let them drink their own rain

the plaster dreams of dreary kings 
fall not round my hips and the whine of whips are far beyond the cello of lovely nights
her ******* and her thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon these fluffy newborn children we lay our heads like down upon the duck in the dusk
upon soft pillows Buddha madly drumming Jesus spinning rain
the ducklings race and the pond seeks no moon nor sun
where lovers' beloveds swim

oingo boingo holes in hands of Jesus and Buddha rivet the godsun of baby bird eyes 
it has been foretold by secret ladybugs whirring 
whom I lend to my beloved when I kiss her to soothe her 
that my rages there die

for upon the last day that I live I shall see the true sky
upon the opened eye of the pastel lids of a new bird born dying

let me raise my veins and tendons 
from my fingers shall grasp the mother birds a math of upswoop 
let there be terrible storms of beauty let the donkey in barn who dreams of gold find love
a daisy sun and upon this I try forevermore to ascend when I kiss my beloved
there shall be terrible storms of beauty 

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
but there upon the mountain where a once fiery stormy river raged in dawns restless pounding
tumorous thoughts of old men whose young bodies give birth to themselves
abortion of souls by songs of flags' lie they shimmering
upon the upraised red streaked fingers of hybrid monster theories
vultures and the rats grow fat with existentialist jacking
brays ***** across their yellowed rivers  

their tears are hidden to them the way simple men come with axes
when the automatic weapons run dry melting
each rising atomic thing shall escape alone and search for its brethren
each hyena must dance naked in rain the last day
on a highway no child's cry can cease

let the sun crack where the dead man peels my flesh from my hands
trying to say goodbye and let them lift their mouths up and drink their rain
my love's ******* and thighs have forsaken the numberless dismal rains
upon our fluffy newborn child we lay our heads down upon
soft pillows 

take the glowing wafting breads of autumn and winter shall lay down no more
let me drink from the socket of the tender pastel ****** of death
where the baby wren dreams long after it has fallen and risen again 

where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring in odd and beautiful flowers

meadows arise with great fury my flesh and mountains and valleys cease their separation
there are many daisies and bumble bee songs in the heart of each unborn child
each young girl touches when she watches the ponies and the daffodils sway

giant head of death ambitious reminiscence
a red mud land of untold photon castles that tremble in the night
where the owlet gathers its fat body like goblets of scotch in the night
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's ******* 
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew

I have taken fingers from 'round the rising angel away
and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
where Buddha slides the eggplant curve and night falls, deep, into the ground
where battlefields leave wisdom come Spring through odd and beautiful flowers

where oingo boingo turtle eyes beam from the holes of Jesus
lay me mighty at my own feet


and her dress flies round her face and I have been born in this way
rancorous blackberry swaying tress of my true love's ******* 
where fingers of god the costume of moon is dew where Buddha slides the eggplant curve
night falls deep into the ground
oddly flowers beautiful


I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
My garden yet is filled with merry powers.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers.
May Jesus hold her, run with her, play with her.
Last night I heard my puppy's eyes dying fly.
I pick a ***, for her, of goblin flowers,
       where sunbeam ponies she so loved high whinny.
 








.

Mean but resisting
Love stronger possessing
His charm I was Divinely
touched by his spirit

I want it so easy to flaunt it
"Both Suited" Black tie affair
Smoking out the joint

What a dangerous pair
Darker than any smoke
What's the point??
Going to blow devil words
Angelic Paradise birds

Do we have this planned out,
what do we see? He's not suited
Cruel 2-B ****** life is dark
but **** good easily taken
Fruit of the soul mistaken sliced
and  parted

Paint's it Graffiti hood
Careless ****** up to him
Reckless my lips played
him hard

Smoked killed me off-guard
He sneaked around the fruit
Strawberry strange pursuit
My soul this is the last straw
Deadly strawberries beguiled
by the??

Strawberry smells of the
black rose
All covered seductively posed
The song plays out strawberry
With solitude voiced by
Soprano wine by the bucket
of deep red "Gallo"

Intense smoking love incense
Smoking jacket cuddled me
cello
Strawberry sounds smothered
Good night dark strawberry moon
I grabbed him way too soon

The old man without wrinkles
Was playing
Patience
Spreading his cards on the bed
Talking to himself
About his moves
Engrossed in his own world
Of cards and advancing years

People are going and coming
Through his room
Not the least bothered
He is busy with
His outer world
He is not waiting for
The dead end.

When his cataract-operated eyes
Will be tired
He will express his desire
To sit in the veranda

His books and a dictionary
Will be put on the table
And he is seen engrossed
Again cut off from
The outer world
Immersed
In the world of books
Sometimes he would lift up
His head smile and look around
And again go into his self-created world,
Today I read a status on FB
About the legendary cellist,
Pablo Casals who used to practice
At the age of ninety; and beyond

I find similarity between them
Both of them are making progress
In life, defeating despair, it seems
Shutting the dark thoughts
From their inner worlds

Last night
I saw him in my dream playing
Patience and l heard
The distinct strokes of bow on a Cello

And now I woke up
With awe at the way
They were not
Actually waiting
But celebrating!

I wish I could let you hear my memories.
Of the sound of a baby who laughs at a smile.
Of the sound of a tear as it falls.
The sound of a gentle hand wiping it away.
Of the sound of the tread of my shoes
Along a path in the woods
As I follow the sound of a waterfall.
The sound of the waterfall that was just out of reach.
The sound of a cello playing
As if a life's soul was being played.
The sound of a choir singing
With everything they have
Because they need to be heard.
I wish you could hear it.
I wish you could hear what I hear.
You would love it too.
I wish you could hear the music
In the whistle of the winds.  
I wish I could let you hear the way I do.
The crash of the waves against the shore.
The seagulls crying.
The whispers of life in the air.
I wish you could hear life like I do.
Everything in life is a symphony.
Life is the most complex yet simple,
Chaotic yet harmonic,
Discordant yet perfect
Song of the heart, mind, and soul.

Plato believed that the future could be told
by listening to the lingering whispers of the wind.
between its howls and sighs and
its knuckles cracking on the branches
it mentions something,
the something to come
the something that envelopes us
like an iron blanket.

or so Plato says.
but every time i've opened my ear
it just grew cold and slightly stung
so i stopped trying to hear the something
that wouldn’t voice itself loudly enough.

yet, along came an orange-haired girl who claims she can hear the wind
and i watch her and she sings along with it
in words that sound like cello strings.
her arms sway leaflike in a breathing ballet
a combination of her and the something
and all i hear is its hushness.
but it lures my legs to sit
and it tempts my mouth to shut
and listen.

i don’t know if this girl actually understands Plato’s sacred windsong
i don’t know if it’s something that her mind composed
but i do know that her lungs seem fuller than mine ever have
because she breathes belief, something i’ve always exhaled
in my sarcastic search for Science’s future.

I watched you silently from my place amid the masses
As you sat alone on stage

Around you stood the empty chairs
Still awaiting instruments and bodies
But you didn’t seem to notice

Slowly drawing the bow across the strings
While fingers danced seemingly unaided

I sketched you then in my mind so that I might always remember the way your brow was furrowed
Hair astray in the fashion most expected by a being that has not slept in as many days as artists of unheard merit are apt to do

I traced the joints of your fingers curled around the dark wooden handle almost, but never touching the off white fabric that stretched between one point and the other

In my mind I found I could only liken you and your appearance to that of others I had only read of
All fictional of course

Here a wayward detective long since run down but never out sank his sorrows in a bottle while his mind fractured but still brilliant carried on

But then there were so many others that also came to mind, each tugging at the corners of my imagination with passionate desperation
Attempting in the only way they knew to be the sole capture of my attention

In this corner I found a journalist well traveled as he was versed, with the quality beseeching that of a gentleman hidden under two days worth of growth

But perhaps your likeness might be more suited to the air of a more scientific mind, secret genius cultivating cures for every kind of illness while still trapped in the depths of madness

I sat and watched as you played unnoticed for what seemed to me just a moment but was far more then that as my mind turned over the possibility of all the people you could have been

But when asked softly why didn’t I rise from my unnoticed place and put to rest my chaotic thoughts by moving close to speak to you if only for a moment

I resisted

What could I say to let them understand the path my mind had run
How I was unwilling to leave my seat, held there by this slight fear

That if I dared to find my voice, to rise and cross the space between the seats… to draw close enough that you might see me
All that I had imagined you to be would be crushed or somehow dulled by the harsh light of reality

You might not be a gentleman, suave and smooth with charm or reflect even a bit the madness of a scientist whose sanity has long since gone…
You might be so far from the truth that I’d never write this poem

So I sat silently in my place amid the masses

Watching you draw your bow across the strings while your fingers danced unaided

Whispers from deep voices that seemingly deteriorate;
We chorused into the thunderous sound of that old cello.
Not a harmony we could ever create,
This is not what I intend, everything turned askew.

That old pendulum is swaying to its usual way,
A resemblance of our long gone grieves
It was an affair crammed with dismay.

But darling, you've got your demons now;
Down to the age of your throwbacks, stupefying you every now and then
And here I am, still that vigilant somehow.

The double six tragedy was indeed an epic.
Distance, silence, timing, all falling into an illusion,
And yes, that was your treacherous scheme, making me even more frantic
But life never stops there, in the end there would still be an affirmation.

he was a tambourine
cling-cling-cling
competing with the guitar,
strrr...uuummm...
bass,
puuu-waaa...ssh!
and drums
BO...o...Om!

In the orchestra
he was the conductor's baton
swish-swish-swish
drowned out by the oboe
BRRR...Rooo...
cello
teener-neener-teen
violin
Neee-nah­-neee...nahnahnah-nee...

When he went solo
he was a harp
bling-bling-bling-bling...
graceful, delicate
tling-ling-ring-bling...
his strings plucked
pling-pling-pling-pling
by angels

I can play an E-minor chord, I tell him.
I can play the cello, he tells me. He smiles with half his mouth
and I kiss him again.

It’s getting late and I’m measuring
the time by the five minute steel guitar and the five minute steel guitar
and we both know where I’d rather be but here—
here is okay too.
His hands are different, but they will do.

The Ham is Roasting, and Revelers are Toasting,
To New Years and Old, as the soft Music is Playing,
Party goers Adorned with Finery and Pressed Suits
Glide over the Dance floor to Violins, Cello's and Flutes
Soft Waltzes to Dance,  Leads to Romance
Perfume Scent doing what its Meant...
Champagne toasts, Amid Soft Holiday lights
All Lead to Holiday Delights in the Night
Soft Lips so Red it Alarms, create Alluring Charms
The Mistle Toe Hung can't Be missed, When it leads to a Kiss
Soft Shoulders so Magic, as you glide across the Floor
A tender Kiss on her Neck, she's Breathless and Wanting more.
You feel so light on this Magical night, as you Grab her Wrap,
And hold the door, Snuggled up warm on the ride Home
And a soft and Tender Kiss at the Door...and, ends this Poem...
.........................................................­............................JMF 12/24/14

Just because I listen
To digital cello music Monday's
Space rock Tuesday's
Country hoedown Wednesday's
Emotive rap Thursday's
Classical pieces Friday's
And metal on Saturdays
Doesn't mean Sunday
Has to be a day
Of rest

The blush water lilies
all rose up with sunshine's gold
as the little sailor boy
by the pond merrily strolled.

His cheeks were cherry red,
and his locks - fair and yellow
when he sat by the wooden bridge
playing on his father's cello.

And while his music was even heard
in the fisherman's village, so clear and loud
He spotted his reflection in the water and said
,, Boy, to be so young I am most certainly proud ! ,,

Suddenly the sailor boy realized soon,
to the old captain he gave his word
and promised to set sail with him
by tomorrow's merciful noon.

But this rash oath he did regret,
for instead with the village boys to carelessly play
he had to leave the warm dry land
and boldly sail under skies angry and grey.

Why, Oh why did he ever ran away from home,
and abandon his poor mother who was very ill
to wait for him all  day and all night
'cause he was her only son, true and still

So he stood up and quickly passed the bridge,
thinking of his mother's eyes, colored in brown
And below the mossy ridge he ran
when he saw her weeping in the garden.

,, Mother, sweet mother ,, - the sailor boy cried
and ran up to her hugging her apron, clean and white
,, I do not wish to sail young in the roaring sea
and leave you alone here to die of terrible fright ,,

,, Do not worry ,,- his mother happily said
and his blessed heart was again filled with joy,
for he knew that even if he never would sail to sea,
he would always remain the little sailor boy

LISTENING TO YOUR FAVOURITE PIECE OF MUSIC

Oh you were so
quiet

I hardly heard you
tiptoe silently in

settle yourself
amongst the strings

talking to me
now in cello
now in violin

the heartbeat of a drum

the exchange of laughter
between  glockenspiel & xylophone

making a point
with either

the tiny ******
of a triangle

or the crash of a symbol.

I listen to you talk
to me in music

the candlelight
grows dim & then

as softly as you came

you leave

leaves

(fluttering against
the windowpane) .

I feel you leave
leave before the movement ends

footsteps
in the silence of my memory

me nearly

forgetting

that you've died

listening on
until the end

as the music

cries.

The cello
mother of music
sings peacefully
from the eye of the storm

A peace purchased
at the price of certitude

Piano provides counterpoint
restrained
elegant
its curtains of sound
dream their own dreams

and a longing violin
makes love to
the air itself

We march deliberately
to this tempo
stepping in time
to the sweet
and terrifying strains
of our own mortality

The composer
died
at thirty one years.
Why - how
have I lived so long?

Perhaps
to hear this music as if for
the first time
and so share it
with the sky.