"rosin" poems
Rose Red's hair is brown as fur
and shines in firelight as she prepares
supper of honey and apples, curds and whey,
for the bear, and leaves it ready
on the hearth-stone.
Rose White's grey eyes
look into the dark forest.
Rose Red's cheeks are burning,
sign of her ardent, joyful
compassionate heart.
Rose White is pale,
turning away when she hears
the bear's paw on the latch.
When he enters, there is
frost on his fur,
he draws near to the fire
giving off sparks.
Rose Red catches the scent of the forest,
of mushrooms, of rosin.
Together Rose Red and Rose White
sing to the bear;
it is a cradle song, a loom song,
a song about marriage, about
a pilgrimage to the mountains
long ago.
Raised on an elbow,
the bear stretched on the hearth
nods and hums; soon he sighs
and puts down his head.
He sleeps; the Roses
bank the fire.
Sunk in the clouds of their feather bed
they prepare to dream.
Rose Red in a cave that smells of honey
dreams she is combing the fur of her cubs
with a golden comb.
Rose White is lying awake.
Rose White shall marry the bear's brother.
Shall he too
when the time is ripe,
step from the bear's hide?
Is that other, her bridegroom,
here in the room?
3.1k
at the fete du bons vieux temps - Cahokia, Illinois
White clouds of rosin dust
Flew off Geoff's fiddle strings
As his earth dance
Soared above the pulsing
Of friends on bass and guitar.
Tuniced men bowed
To their bonneted ladies
Bedecked in colonial frocks.
In turn each pair sashayed
Down and up the line,
Whirled and laced their way
Through outstretched hands
Of family, friends and neighbors
Shaping an arch at line's end
For all the rest to pass beneath.
All across our country's timescape
Countless bridal pairs
Have sealed their sacraments
Spinning in the whirlwind
Of the Virginia Reel -
With each interclasping of arms
A blessing upon their unions.
Geoff lifted his bow from the strings,
And bowed with his band to receive
The applause rippling the air
Like the patter of ancestral rain
Nourishing the sweet soil
Of our common earthly essence.
February, 2007
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
SELL me a violin, mister, of old mysterious wood.
Sell me a fiddle that has kissed dark nights on the forehead where men kiss sisters they love.
Sell me dried wood that has ached with passion clutching the knees and arms of a storm.
Sell me horsehair and rosin that has ****** at the ******* of the morning sun for milk.
Sell me something crushed in the heartsblood of pain readier than ever for one more song.
1.7k
Laying on my bed, tired of fight another day
I want to rest, sleep. I close my eyes
I find myself in a beautiful place
At the peak of a mountain
Where the sky is at dawn
And the wind softly blowing through my hair
Carrying with itself the most pretty cherry blossom leaves
I've never seen
seem dancing with the soft wind's blow
Marveled, I stay
I've ever seen such a place on earth
I feel the light heat of the sun but
the wind makes me shriver from its cold blow
I across my arms
trying to make myself a little warm
From the distance
You came
I am atonished, thinking I'm seeing an angel
Towards me slowly you walk
I saw your face
your hair, golden brown dancing with the wind
your eyes pierced through mine
leaving my soul naked at your sight
your lips so smooth, like made of silk
and light pink, soft reddish
My heart is beating faster
with every step you take towards me
within only inches apart
Our faces meet
You opened your arms
and take me closer to you
Your arms so strong and delicate at the same time
I lean my head on your chest
I feel safe
Then you move your head
Your lips rosin my ear
you said "
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 7:27 PM UTC
Resting on a stack of
original vinyl’s
a cowboy hat of black felt
the dresser was blonde with gold handles
a collection common in the 1960’s
a small turn table, red handkerchiefs
harmonica, guitar picks and cigarette papers
a diorama of his life
as kids, we would pull out the blue song folder
and sing Your Cheatin’ Heart
into an empty microphone stand
the aroma of rosin and pipe tobacco
guitar cases and Fender amps we dare not touch
when the babysitter’s boyfriend, one night
played Hey Good Lookin’ on the record player
I shot after him like a bear cub
my heart racing in my throat
saying I’m going to tell my Daddy!
a picture I drew found its place by
his fiddle, the one that
sits in my closet today, someday,
I will learn to play Lovesick Blues
because every time I hear that song
my dad is wearing his hat
tapping his feet
and singing like ol’ Hank Williams
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
*Draw hither golden blade , brother to sassafras and veronica
Purveyor of delicate , sanguine architects in pastoral visage
Of ebony cloth cooling evergreen shadows within -
Rosin incense , spearmint infused morning dew seasoning
o'er felled timber escarpments , Summer rain infusions of
petit , lavender violet corsage and August whimsy
Petrichor , Persimmon Clover bouquets , juvenile , song filled
brook-sides , poetic diamond studded sandbars , Chattahoochee
Crayfish , Shellcracker , Blue Heron land of Creek and Cherokee
fathers
Of Towaliga , Bear , Moccasin , Indian streams
Emerald swept low country isles , songbird arbors , peridot waterways
beside whitewashed shoreline* ...
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Are you sure You're not a musician?
You've struck a chord within me
A tightening tension
A violin bow with fresh rosin
Drug across a string to sing
A welcoming friction
Note of pure joy
If I didn't know any better
I'd swear You were
A world renowned composer
You've made sweet music of my love
It's penetrated my body and mind
You've brought upon me
A kind of symphony
I never imagined I could find
Like it
Your every movement
Is a motion of Your majesty
Each phrase is a graceful melody
What I heard before was loneliness
I listened time and again
Over and over
Until You swept in and changed the key and
Played for me a masterpiece
It sounds great
When You arpeggiate
Your adulation for We
Every interval an integral
Part of Our pleasure
One by one
Each note an ode to Us
Ascending the scales of
Our hearts
We both intertwine
Like a divine hymn sung by angels
In a church built by fond feelings and
Free of devils
We will sing Our song
To the open sky
Letting all who hear know why
We were meant for each other
You are and
Will always be
My
Conductor of comfort
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
Music is liturgy
Amplifying through the empty space between
The sea and the celestial spheres governing
The movements of the bodies below
Astral songs churning through the bellows
Of a tired church *****
Standing idly by, while a man whispers
The prayers of the people
All fitting into grooves
Inscribed on the human mind
Causing friction
Vibration
Like rosin, playing with a cello string
Singing out a melody
Leading men on a journey unique to them
Yet all with the same end
A state as close to the holy
As known in the human form
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
III
Out of the corner of my eye
I watch our rosin-graced bows
Rotate to our rhythm
Our bowties are fresh and
Pressed
Our vests clean and buttoned
I smile at Fred, who
Turns to grin at Hartley
What fine folk
Our wooden bridges will greet
Tonight
***
We are a dream
Hartley directing us like a grand symphony
We are voices to keep thoughts off of
The maiming waves
The melancholy miasma of
Starlight
Glints on our strings
People screaming, bellowing,
Fighting
But we play on, men
We play on.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
Four strings and rosin,
Resin of old cello fires,
. . . Fingers in amber.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Tonight was lovely my dear
You did very well
Your heart sang with joy
Your smile widened
Your confidence grew
You were not fighting
You were whole
You were happy
You were guiltless
You weren't shy
You didn't hurt
You didn't remember
You didn't blush
You weren't embarrassed
You found the right words to say
Your violin sang with all you had
You said your goodbyes with joy
Sorrow didn't pierce your heart
Joy of confidence
Heart of soul
Mind of laughter
You'll never forget this night of success
Where you didn't want to cut at all
Starve or hit or feel angry
Or hate yourself
You didn't worry tonight
You were surrounded by happiness
You didn't feel like an outcast
You felt like you were one
One of many
Many make a body
And a body make a voice together
Singing joy
Spreading smiles
Remember this night my dear
Remember when you feel down
Remember when you are discouraged
Remember when you hurt
Look at the pictures
Let the memories fall
Like raindrops on your head
Cleaning your mind
Freshening your spirit
Lay down the blade
Uncurl your fist
Open the fridge
Remember tonight
Lay your head on your pillow
Curl up in your blanket
Relive the sights of people swarming around you
The smells of rosin and wood
The taste of cherry cough drops
The smile upon your face
Your friends and teachers smiling with you
You'll miss them so much
Your heart will rend apart
Blood will flow
Uncried tears thicken
Swallowing sobs
Remembering
It doesn't matter if you don't see them again
What matters is how much you think about them
Maybe you'll meet again
Maybe you won't
Remember this
You're never alone
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
bought me a woman off my bucket list
inexpensive as they go
she's so ****** pretty
she's got me giddy with excitement
a smooth, shiny, orange brown, maplewood body
with an hourglass figure
a long-necked rosewood fingerboard
a brazilwood bow with ebony frog
she wears her hair in a top knot scroll
held together by large ebony pegs
standing only on one leg
she’s tall for a stringed instrument
tune her up and rough up your rosin
hold her between your knees
hug her from behind
stroke her as she moans her mellow melodies
didn’t know if it would work out
but I love her so much I had to try
I’ve always loved her
but now I know
although I would hold her close
she sings her song for others
turning her face from me
so I can’t hear her voice
I have to let her go
let her make someone else happy
she was mine for a night
but there are no switches or dials
I can’t set my heart on temporary
maybe I’ll try again later
you can’t give up on love
perhaps an electric model with headphones
then she’ll sing her songs only for me
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 10:30 PM UTC
The rosin still clings
To my slackened strings
And my shine is all but gone.
Yet you found me;
There lying still and silent,
In my funerary garments
Of tattered velvet
and darkened oak.
You called to me,
Coaxing me back into being.
For yours is a labor of love;
I need you nearly as much
As you need me; Musician.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
Let me to kiss your chewy lips,
Draw drops of blood with little nips,
And **** them up in little sips.
Your teeth, as white as yellow snow,
Crooked and spare, do seem to show
Like rocks of rosin in a row.
Your forkèd tongue did lately taste
A cockroach fat; now, should you haste
To **** my breath like solid waste.
To me there is no greater bliss
That heaven could hostage than your kiss.
Come, kiss me before I take a ****
O.O
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
The bone corset strengthens backbone,
offers the fine figure encased in rustled sewn midnight skies.
Tap and swish and sway, the heat increases,
drawing near
arms extended.
A babys' grip surrounds the scrolled neck,
feathers graze in awe, wonder, delight, and tension ignite.
You look so tenderly at carved perfection,
a specter you were before it,
your soul combines with reddened varnish.
Enmeshed you two make the nether gates open,
Welcoming, sweet, harmonic balms.
Rosin soaked fingers,
the testament of your decadent affairs.
You breathe, it sighs, moan before her and hear her cry.
Futile it is to control the sirens song,
inhale the vibrations artfully wrenched from the f-holes.
Holdfast to the bow,
lest you be lost in between the spaces of spun string.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
I wrote you a folk song, sister.
Think I’ll call it “Caroline,”
after your mama’s mama
and the way she’d
slow smoke a brisket
for fifteen hours,
slapping away at the jaw harp
and kicking chickens.
Man, she had heart.
Nate and I still swing down by Early’s mill
on these summer days away from work,
and hack our way through the rushes
with that Congolese machete
Daddy gave me for my tenth birthday
(the fringes remain intact).
Nate ran into trouble,
and is back in town
for a while.
I’d say it’s about time
we rosin up the horsehair
and saw away at some old gospel staples,
the same way we did
at the fiddle contests
two lifetimes ago,
when the mountain tunes lingered
in the morning mist
far beyond breakfast.
Back when the AT through hikers
crashed at our place and brought stories of the Great Trail.
Back when my daddy wore bellbottomed jeans
and could scale a rock like some sort of deity.
Back when Nate smashed Grammie’s mason jar
of flour all over the road
and got a good whoopin’.
Back when we’d dam up the creek
and dream up images for the trees.
Back when your mama’s mama
prayed to Jesus on our behalf,
and the stars still came out most nights.
Her redwood rosary still dangles
on the mirror by my Hank Williams shrine.
Yes, I wrote you a tune from the heart, sister,
where the memory wells
flow with water from a living rock.
I hope you like it.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
right now
i'm imagining
the feeling of sweat
and hairspray
and suspecting that the
church will be hot
the knees of friends
and family all
sticking to the edges of
the blue padded pews
i can practically
feel my clammy hands
and the robe hanging
from my shoulders
rosin on my fingers
i expect that i will
need rosin
and nail polish
to keep me
glued together
i hope
i won't cry
i kind of know
i won't cry
but i bought waterproof
mascara just in case
and i won't be able
to feel my toes because
they'll be numb
in my finest heels
all i want is to be
out of here
but it's still only
in my mind.
and as i'm sitting in bed
contemplating
*(you could call it
dwelling or
obsessing but i will
call it good
old-fashioned
contemplation)*
i'm thinking about
my graduation
and how i don't even
really care
about a kind of
paltry milestone
inside this year
compared
to the feeling of
the last day of class
that moment on stage
dancing in sneakers
my finest poems
late nights
mornings too early
yearbooks
and every weekend
spent together
i'll miss
everything i had
and dread all
that i don't
but i sure can't wait
to get out
i just have to get
past graduation day.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
comfortably placed in a well-padded swivel chair
fingertips tapping a lovely mahogany desk
on the left rests a vape pen loaded with rosin I squished
next to a hand-blown glass pipe
specifically for the finest organic outdoor flower
which, it just so happens, I grew myself
the soft glow of the screen beacons
another lovely poem for the community –
outside the window just off my right shoulder
barely noticeable fin movements send spotted coy across the pond
just beyond, the gardens, both vegetable and medicinal
sit in the sun, swelling and flourishing
surrounded by large quartz stones
placed into a medicine wheel
ala black elk speaks --
the old lab comes and rests his greying mug on my leg
a few pats and some scratching under the chin and around the ears
fat and ornery black and white cat hops into the window sill
offering up a weak meow, and anticipatory purrs
soft caresses from the top of his head to the base of his tail
stretching his *** way into the air, he looks over as if to ask,
“who said you could be done”
I place my hands at the keyboard
typing what may be the one that gets me on Colbert –
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
Heart String Sorrows
Sadness plays my heart strings
With a bow of rosin’d guilt
Tear drops stain the notes upon the page
Sorrowed cello whispers
Of a soundless worry wilt
Harmonies distorted in this rage
Out of tune concertos
Fall as fractured cymbals blare
Steady as the beat of gathered pain
Broken mirror rhythms
Sit upon the favored chair
Misery in musical refrain
Violin’d distractions
Born of melodies so thin
Echoing performed apologies
A cappella opus
In a prelude to the hymn
Composed for you in all sincerity
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
His heavy soiled worn
work boots, are set aside on
the woven mat in the corner of the room,
behind him.
Picking up the violin and bow, with rosin
sticking, tuning as he moves across the open, lofted
space
in preparation of play. And by playing,
the chatter and noise of his work day far and away,
from this private space were no longer a distraction. They were behind him,
now he had completed a new song, knew it by heart,
as it was from his…
with the sounds and notes soaring above the vaulted
ceiling rafters, he was getting that feeling that comes
with his play.
He began to dance for his audience of One.
the music was his, but with it he asked for forgiveness,
for his thoughtless ways on those days when he cared not for,
any other living soul than his own. Then a heaviness in
the flow, the rhythm, lead him to a place where he knew he
was forgiven now and forever from before he or this song,
were ever birthed.
He dreams Celtic.
Arms moving as he played, feet lifting and placed,
jumping from note to note, to land and lift again. And again.
Lightly.
He dreams Celtic.
He paused, so did his music as did his play
and he stared his work boots down.
Then he quickly he began again fingers dancing over
the strings,
as feet danced across the floor, he knew
that in playing his music there was joy,
in his past there was a history,
that told a story every-time
he played
because he dreams Celtic.
Though the day may tax him,
it was able to be tamed, for
his dreams of music are reality
and he dreams Celtic.
DWE 2013-04-21
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
Pour me another, to recess we go,
Tender the whiskey or beer in my hand
Feelingless furlough with barleycorn glow
Hazard as high as perception is low
Don’t tell my mother, she won’t understand
Pour me another, to recess we go
Scars are clothes-covered and flesh wounds don’t show
Hide all my bruises, pretend that I’m grand
Feelingless furlough with barleycorn glow
Don’t call my mother, she won’t want to know
More to these feelings than she would have planned
Pour me another, to recess we go
Call the Mourne Mountains, and rosin the bow
Rattle the bog and the black velvet band
Pour me another, to recess we go
Don’t tell my mother, she still doesn't know
Sentiment-soaked more than she could withstand
Pour me another, to recess we go,
Feelingless furlough with barleycorn glow
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 10:56 PM UTC
more than a meter away,
I sense the light as if it were a foreign
and endangered thing,
flesh over flesh in flesh under flesh,
and I think that it is only now that I begin to see it well,
only now is it binding as well as it should be,
a matter thicker than metal and heavier than water,
otherwise how could it sink to such great depths?
but what eye clearer than mine sees the light in itself,
with its black veins ready to burst,
darker than a placenta thrown in the garbage,
heavier than mercury when it explodes
and upon seeing it, what eyes will rotate
around it as if around an asphalt bucket?
with an eye such as mine you can’t see the light burning
instead you see its shabby structure,
its weight heavier than that of darkness.
only through the blind and useless eye, you see the unseen light,
the light which rots on Sundays in the yards,
too tired to go away,
the tiny wiry eye flowing after the light
sees what the seeing eye has never seen,
it’s not the matter which is heavy, but the light pressing it,
the eyes that break down are the only ones to see it,
who only sees the light does not see it.
yet who does not see it gathers it in big barrels,
over which they place burdock and stones
and keep it over the years, until it accumulates at the bottom
and hardens like rosin.
one day, in the astronomers’ telescopes
it will look like a dark and thick oil,
which they will use to rub their bodies.
and maybe then the eye, which only brings
bad luck to sight, will disappear.
when he sees with the skin, man will no longer be man
and the religion of retina will have long disappeared.
as long as god exists, he can’t be seen with sight
but then he won’t get away from us anymore.
he is part of the light that
the usual eye can’t see,
yet which my almost blind eyes sees.
from light upwards, things become harder and harder
and while you go up, you can’t go down anymore.
the great difficulty is in fact the easiness,
upon rising, you become the heaviness of the other world,
you crash in nothingness like a bag full of boulders.
man becomes heavy in the other world
because of the light: the venous light
the great luminous Carpathians from under the chest,
the sombre lights which thicken his bones.
who said man is not light?
truly man is light in the unseen,
a clot of lights, very weak ones.
few will be the things which
we haven’t seen because of the light,
this is only because light does not help us see
and anyway I have a bad eyesight
and through my limited glasses
I rather see the unluminous light.
and when the flesh will turn blind, they will also see
the fleshy light because of which we rot.
Ioan Es. Pop
translated by Flavia Hemcinschi
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 7:41 AM UTC
Cheek poised on the violin
Rosin on the bow,
She takes her music places
Where others cannot go.
In the caves of icicles
Or in the desert heat
Playing with a Pentatonics
The 'Radioactive' beat.
Her hands meld with her violin
Music pumps from her heart.
Her instrument becomes a part of her
She bleeds for her art!
She can make a sound
Like a soughing sob,
Or make a pinnacle of joy
That is heard by God.
But no matter what art inspired her
She would rise to fame
That's just her very nature...
... Lindsey Sterling is her name.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
*Cottony banks dot madder blue afternoon sky as every precious second of a Summer day expires
Pine rosin clings to these worn out boots as I leave established trails , receiving the optical life-force of the Georgia woodlands from my personal , unique vantage
Granite outcroppings teem with the answer of life , off through the wildflower valley , forging clear brooks in sweet musical cadence , awaiting the cool introspection of twilight*...
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC