Clasp of silvers twice as thin as each other
Both flat to end in its impact
Its echo does not repeat but lingers like static that makes you think of gold.
Drifting in an ascending melody that
Climbs the senses in your ears as much as your skin.

They lead us steadily
To the edge of the mountains and then stops abruptly.
Stopped incredibly as if it's afraid and timid.
Strings play so thinly as each are all skinny.
A miracle moving like smoke and gas welcomes her.

Slow dance in arpeggios, a glimpse of perfection for harmony, tip by tip
And in her quiver
She laments she'll wait forever.

Forever it may be til she is in the arms of the lover.
For the end of all thousand Decembers and Januarys
Undyingly and endlessly.
Anywhere you go
Seek the thunder you wander far and near, wide and narrow.

Until I hear you sigh
Until you stop holding your breath under the brim of our wishing well.

Warm as soil beneath spring sun
banishing memories of januarys frost
time has not dulled your light
my skin heals
my scars soften
your flowers bloom again each spring
as nesting birds begin to sing
Roses grow within you

Goodbye, with darkened eyes streaming.
Years slipt by, as seasons tried,
To wake me from my slumber.
From januarys warmth,
to the shiver of december.
She walked with me.
This i do remember.
Sweetest days,
To soon had come to wither.
The roses slowly shed their skin,
Leaving sweetness now remembered.
Hope blooms as spring thaws out the winter.
There are cracks in me,
Yes thats where the lights shines in.
So, goodbye my love.
I loved you because it was bitter,
And it was my heart.
But the stony earth of soul,
I till the loam and plant the seeds,
And watch love bloom from that soil.

There is a certain shock, not from the silence itself
But of its revelations, the laying bare
Of the utter superfluence of language
In all which unfolds before us, the testament mute
But imbued with all the power of an orchestra
In full-throated fortissimo
Delivered through the panorama of the vast steppes,
The bounty of their Junes,
The desolation of their Januarys
The visage of the doomed Strelnikov,
The darting glances of the chameleonesque Komarovsky,
His eyes scuttling to and fro like dark cockroaches,
And most of all by the unquiet, not-of-this world gaze
Of Yuri Andreyevich, a stare which tells tales
Of how fleeting this world's happiness will be,
How final and inescapable its sadness,
And as he stumbles and falls in his mad, final pursuit
Of a grail which is unheeding, unseeing,
Always just a step out of reach,
The dialogue is not a necessity,
For we have a trove of our own words and experience
To attest to the veracity of the scene in question.

Music Can Make Me Cry
26 Januarys 2023

More than poetry, art, stone sculpture,
A violin, a piano, flutes,
Hold me.
Higher than I can climb on my own.
Deeper than I can reach with these arms.

Love songs cry.
Clear, not words,
Music,
Melody, overcome me.

Lifted beyond today,
To a place,  no pain, no fear, no loss.
Children, family, friends,
You are here.
Warmer than camp fire, flame under a star-lit sky.
Over snowy berms, valleys, pebbled lanes,
Opening wheat fields, endless expanse.
Peace.

Music live.  
In the woods, in the cities.
One tiny bird brings an opera.
Reedy waters, symphony.
From each meadow, divas, a tenor.
Forest, choir, spirits, ghosts.
From Dad’s workbench, voices of angels.
Mom’s eyes, heaven.

Under the streetcar rides my soul.
Clopping hoofs, rhythm, my heartbeat.
Rain drops, my breath.
Ocean waves, my birth, my being.

Today’s sun, tomorrow’s promise, yesterday's memories.
Thunder, creation.

My love, you bring each sweet tone.  
You gift my pedestal.

Sometimes music, can make me cry.

and i will make new memories by
mixing fresh januarys with blossoming aprils
and
sprouting marches will be tossed with hearty novembers
and
a dash of ambition and a handful of benevolence

Until today I have never re-posted someone else's work on my modest site. This is brilliant:

W. K. Kortas
JUNE 22, 2021

ON WATCHING “DOCTOR ZHIVAGO” WITH THE SOUND OFF

On Watching “Doctor Zhivago” With The Sound Off
There is a certain shock, not from the silence itself
But of its revelations, the laying bare
Of the utter superfluence of language
In all which unfolds before us, the testament mute
But imbued with all the power of an orchestra
In full-throated fortissimo
Delivered through the panorama of the vast steppes,
The bounty of their Junes,
The desolation of their Januarys
The visage of the doomed Strelnikov,
The darting glances of the chameleonesque Komarovsky,
His eyes scuttling to and fro like dark cockroaches,
And most of all by the unquiet, not-of-this world gaze
Of Yuri Andreyevich, a stare which tells tales
Of how fleeting this world’s happiness will be,
How final and inescapable its sadness,
And as he stumbles and falls in his mad, final pursuit
Of a grail which is unheeding, unseeing,
Always just a step out of reach,
The dialogue is not a necessity,
For we have a trove of our own words and experience
To attest to the veracity of the scene in question.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE–as I would be justly castigated by my good friend Lawrence Hall if I failed to do so, I made a point of adding the good Yuri’s patronymic .)