The Flautist, fluently flaunted her flute- Music flew faultlessly through the airwaves, flying fluidly above the noise of the blustering city                                                    
THE flautist created a calm fragrance, whose flavor of creativity fell-well onto your soul creating a soul stirring calmness across the city.

She played her flute clean into the night vehemently, over the feverish chaos –
And the people in the park and in the city could hear clearly as they walked in rhythmic tunes/ She flaunted her music like sweet low hanging fruit, Her music dangled beautiful and singly. She alone, Solo-ed notes of delightful serenity-  

  The flautist moved the masses to a state of bliss; Like free kisses flying in the wind landing on ears conquering and engaging spirits, conquering pandemonium with her flute, she blew her flute... SHE BLEW HER FLUTE, and we marched and listened obediently. She blew her flute and we marched magnificently to her concert.

Not for you the opening bars.
Sit back, fold hands, a little smile
At the beauty of the others' notes, familiar.

Now, you feel it coming. A caress
Of knowing fingers, lips. The flute rises
To an acquiescing nod, and

Sometimes you pick a pair of fish and bread
and feed thousands, and at others
master flautist, make umbrellas of hills
protecting us from deluges of wrath.
I have walked to the lonely peaks where
stones have become animated bearing witness
to the nights of wonder, when you poured forth
your love, and drank of the poisoned chalice.
Yea, even by the well where burdened of sin
I sat down, and drank of the springs of Grace.
And I do not wish to hear anything,
but relive the awe seeing you speak,
as one with authority, passion of the heavens!

'What shall we talk about today?'

Spin, spin, spin the conversation
into loops and recapitulations.
Cassettes were my sustenance but
a vinyl record spins on the turntable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
Rests, then
    block chords, then
          swing-swung rhythm.
Then,
unexpected concords.

Where did those blue notes come from?
And colour our red, some supposed red, into
purple?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

I grew up on the clarity and
gravity
of soft pink time;
pearl-notes to the steady, steady,
steady
beat of a metronome.
But now,
                now?
Syncopation.
My  
      beat
against your
                beat
and we make a violently violet
bossa nova.

Suddenly the classically trained flautist
has time-travelled to her very first lesson.
Because no sound flutters out of the mouthpiece
and her fingers can't keep up.
Swing-swung
            syncopation
and she doesn't know to breathe anymore.
Where did those blue notes come from?

Silence.
Have we reached the final double bar?
The cadence is imperfect,
                                             unresolved.
Listen, a cold snap of instant jazz
knocked us over.
Arms clasped, teeth chat-chat-
                                              chattering.
1,
     2,
3 -
A not-quite waltz.
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
I think we know what it is but can't figure it out.
And so Cole Porter and Billie Holiday save us
from
     fading out.

'Let's do it, let's fall in-"

I don't want this song to be over.
I don't even know what it's called
but
don't let it end, don't let it,
don't
        don't
don't.

I can't cook but I think
I can make  
                   instant jazz.
And you,
        and you...
You'll write dizzy like
a Coltrane solo.
As you do.
And I'll lay down my flute,
struggle out of my red minuet and
                                               wonder:
Where did those blue notes come from?

But jazz has always been unpredictable.

'What shall we talk about now?'

Evergreen soldiers at the whim of Alraus
I've had a recurrent dream of the enlisted warriors
abandoning their post , occupying the fertile grassland
in a chess type move to gain control
Free of shade , of root-bound thirst , of choking
moss gathering unchallenged in overpopulated arbors
A celebration courtesy of the Robin Knights , the Chickadee troubadours ,
the Cardinal gentlemen at the Court of Queen Chestnut
Slash , sugar , loblolly and white oak
Persimmon , hickory , honey locust and dogwood
The myrrh of gardenia , magnolia , honeysuckle and tea rose
Earthen red clay , white sand , black loam and kaolin
Grasshopper cellist , cricket flautist , a chuckling crow with a
Spanish guitar
The toad trombones , a bluebird violin solo , a mockingbird reads
a touching poem that even sways the worker ants into a brief pause
The Old Forest becomes pasture and the grassland young woodland
The dove cue the night , the katydids croon to the moon ,
the bullfrogs 'pooka-dooka' and the lovers swoon* ...

amore hear the melody of....
       again again anon anon
bring a symphony of love
   to my ears sing with
perfect pitch the perfect song
     to the perfect end.

pause...... repose
   then here the flautist's
feathered twill
      the bass driving
the beat we tap our hearts
    together to

french horns and clarinets
     bringing fullness to the song of....
amore  amore...
  ever building the suspense

 to a mutual end.

Spent, we cry,

          Bravo!   Bravo!

The flute is mute
it's half-broken
the flautist leaves it alone
old age has spoken

once he was the pride
of the musical world--he brought tears
to his listeners - now in the silence
of his sick-bed--he wants to forget all his past years

Twas essential to see her in wintertide -
misery in order to appreciate the abundant daffodils -
of spring , the cardinal ever watchful over -
her fledgelings , the gaiety , pomp and circumstance -
of damsel flies , the mockingbird flautist and -
the peckerwood drumming
The morning laughter of Bear creek
The multicolored blades of March that -
stair step the Mill Falls
Morning dove woo their lovers , whitetails -
in repose , in the backdrop of misty , hardwood -
cover
Her poetic omnipotence in touch with my -
innermost being
Ever watchful as the cardinal
Breath exposed
Pious
Forever thankful

I was gamesmanship incarnate ,
a shrimper off the Savannah shore ,
a cannoneer in the fury of maritime battle ,
a flautist calling troops to formation ,
Atop the highest ferris wheel ,
imbibing cool waters from the Big Dipper ,
scaling the Horseshoe Nebula ,
leading a fire wagon into the inferno ,
submarining the darkened abyss
Under the cover of shellfire , outflanking
a Napoleonic commander
Belaying the tallest mountainside
with cool , calculated reserve* ..

Behind the curtain

of his music he dances:


the master flautist.

Avian flautist perform in golden canopies , dandelion fairies ride -
springtide breezes high above a meandering , rushing , brown water symphony
The dance of the Blue darters , of the iridescent pirouetting ballet , the birth of a thousand greenwood songs , nature delivering her poetic morning alms
I lie in repose , filled and intoxicated
In burgeoning sunlight , within magnificent shadow , in the centerpiece of living , ever expanding shape and hue* ...

Be it craftsman or musical conductor,
each carries a melody in their heart,

while one gazes ‘round the forest
with artisan eyes to spy just the right limb,

the other stands upon a grandiose stage,
swishes his baton up and over,

and the flautist begins the symphony,
while back and forth the carving blade,

slits then cuts the branch to size,
as precise movements of the baton,
bring the melodic masterpiece alive,

now the cello,
now the ax,
now the violins,
now the saw blade,

the conductor leads the musical score,
the furniture maker knows the tool to use,

the conductor,
the craftsman,

composing, creating,
as an invisible source,

unheard, unseen by the rest of us,
guides them to create and conduct

is good thing,
or else we’d all sit around,

in awesome birch branch chairs,
swooning to Mozart ‘til the end of time.