365Nectar #8    Crescent City Blues                      
Tues. Oct 1,2013 10:21 P.M.

In the deepest attic
the thumping blues
paint pastel portraits
of the Crescent City

In burning ripples
words slap strangers
taking refuge in Armstrong Park

Slender, ****, and Shorty
growl muted tones that ravage old bones
whip thru Mid-City
and saunter thru the Garden District
all just practice to sizzle in a wild tap dance in the Quarter

High steppin Indians
march toward God
and defy gravity.

Roaring second line
being led by woman powered Pinettes Brass Band
hold rush hour traffic hostage for days
belting greasy mingling tunes
in the eye of the dusty moon

A pitch black struggle
with the old moon
liberated old souls
entangled in soaked strings
and sobbing fingers

A quintet churns and
challenges the loneliness of pain

Strumming fingers
make out with
humming strings
under a starry blue grey sky

Stomping down long black Oak-lined roads
blowing thru shotgun homes
like winter cold howling
lifting heavy weights
from shoulders
like the sun shifting against bad weather
the blues lady
open the veins
of drunken roses

Lungs full of tears
Irma holla's, cries, and moans remedies
north south east and west of a street called Desire
Oh Etta
At Last

Dim Misty light
cast a heavy shadow
on wiggling spirits
as they cast off pain
Allen Toussaint
in smokeless blaze
tips the night air

Kermit blows
Dusty blues
seducing suffering souls
bounding them to each other in bliss

Whispering around town
in a perfect velvet midnight
sweet exhalations of song birds from corner joints
dance the Ruffin groove

fiery trebles wave at people passing by

Down right ***** blues
muzzles twilight
trombones,tubas, and trumpets
lay harmony
under the harmonious thunder
of the Marsalis Masters
and low down deep
in a musty sleepless corner
is the missing Bass-man..

hung over.

Copyright ©2013  Crescent City Blues

paradoxes under tables
walled open doors
back alleys, woodwork streets
all busy, all morose
rat podium picture maze
my arms are gelatin
affixed in spares
left to be eaten
windows with glare
the arches of Rome
panels of glass
the musical sheets
orchestration aligned
trumpets on my right
tubas on my left
the open door
let the rats in

I’m driving laps around
Urique’s unpaved streets
with Arnulfo, the world’s fastest
ultra-runner up front
Chugging tesguino disregarding
Young son, Mateas in the back
Handing us the 2 liter Coca-
Cola bottles, full of the mashy
corn brew.
The cholos are drinking
Tecate, mumbling under the palms
stalking the river, watching us
break down at ever lap.
Arnuflo heaves the truck
from behind, alone,
screaming and pushing.

I snap it into second gear
Mateas trembling,
and off we go. Arnulfo hopping in
smoking more cigarettes
passing the tesguino around shouting
Rapido! Poco a poco! Andale!

Rancherra bumps full blast, the
Eternal bumping,
beem, boom, up and down
Beem, boom, beem, boom
Tubas and brass echoing through all the adobe walls
meandering all the way
down the arroyo
to God know’s where.

The cholos challenge Arnulfo
to a race in their harsh stares
under flashy hats and shiny mustaches,
Ed Hardy models with sharp pointed
snake-skinned boots
Ayyeee, Arnulfo says, He won’t race
gainst Oscarine who they say
is the fastest young Chabochi
better than the elders
who used to chase down deer,
gently twisting their necks
after  tracking them to
an ending exhaustion.

Arnulfo tells them I can win
as Oscarine snorts more from the bag
they pass around from his pocket

Off we go twenty yards
Around the farthest tree
And I win because of
Arnulfo's ancient
assurance

Crack, a littlesound from the mast
Reacting cordially to the touch of the monsoon
On her old wooden structure
A tender embrace he gives
Stretching wide the black canvas
Whispering tales of the brave
The once beautiful and strong
But now lay wrecked at sea bottom
Harboring souls of the deadCaptain Black and his crew
An old map of the sea
To the lost moving island
Resting the rulers of the sea
The great kings of pirates

Whoosh, gentle waves drifting
Rocking us rhythmically
A musical sensation it feels
Like a fine tune of a classical
Conducted live in the open sea
Trumpets, trombones and tubas
Violins, violas and harps
A symphonic sound for the traveling souls
And as the sea guardians work
Attending to Captain White in his cabin
I stand on the deck
Relishing thecold breeze
Watching the moon shiftOn a midnight sail

There's a soundtrack stuck in my head.
A whispering, quiet melody.
Flutes and violins take center stage
As cellos and clarinets round out the sound.
The soft plucking of a harp shades and fills in
With the gentle support of a French horn.
And so the basses and the tubas grow louder
As the melody swells
Like a leaf blown higher on the wind.
As it begins to crescendo,
I can feel it in my fingertips--
The emotion of it all.

There's a symphony in your smile,
An orchestral accompaniment
To the twinkle in your eye.
Your laughter is the thumping of the timpani;
Your chuckle the plucking of an upright bass.
Your soft conversing is a harmonic woodwind;
Your finely crafted wit, a lively piccolo.
And your hands gently taking mine,
Cradling them and never wanting to let go,
Is the soft caress of a singing violin.

And when you say, "I love you",
I realize it was you all along.
You are the music in my head,
The soundtrack to my life.
And like we used to do in bygone days,
I would play this music cassette
Over and over and over again
Until the film is faded and cracked,
And there is no more cassette that can be played.
Then I would sit and close my eyes,
And recall it in my memory,
For the music of the heart never fades.

Just like your "I love you's"
And my "I know's".

hear the music
It's funny, when we read.
One hears music of thought.
Light Clarinets with supporting Cello.
Five word sentences for now.
Smooth and gentle tones around.
Seeing the conductor's swaying arms.

We pick up the pace going fast.
Now violins playing quickly back and forth.
Sevens words at a time building expectation.

Nine words brings us almost to the great clash.
The heated strings of the instrument playing ever hard.
The horns gaining confidence and aggression with every second.
Cadance. Cutting into the music. Stopping. The Flow. Chopping. Arms of the conductor. cease.


Soft wind instruments singing
Trombones and Tubas lumbering in.
Cello, Lute, and percussion adding.
                                                         ­                               *Whistles of the Flutes
Quickly rising
    as the music picks up tempo
              the conductor with more vigor
                           The energy rising and rising
                                                     sporadic outbursts
                                                       ­         heading towards the
                                                             ­                     CLASH of the symbols
Now the music and words flowing with no breaks and stops always filling your ear with this continuous overwhelming yet pleasurable sound of thoughts and ideas bouncing around the walls of your skull the never ending music coming down gluing you to your seat with a cacophony of chaos that makes you read on and on until it
                                                             quickly
                                            descends
           ­                      into
              complete
stillness.


Blank balloon of silence punctured by the needle of a Oboe

                                                          ­                                   Sliced by a harp
The symphony of words is endless.

Músicos, rápsodas, prosistas,
poetas, poetas, poetas,
pintores, caricaturistas,
eruditos, nimios estetas;
románticos o clasicistas,
y decadentes, -si os parece-
pero, eso sí, locos y artistas
los Panidas éramos trece!
Melenudos de líneas netas,
líricos de aires anarquistas,
hieráticos anacoretas,
dandys, troveros, ensayistas,
en fin, sabios o analfabetas,
y muy pedantes, -si os parece-
explotado res de agrias vetas
los Panidas éramos trece!
De atormentados macabristas
figuras lívidas y quietas,
rollizas caras de hacendistas,
trágicos rostros de profetas...;
y satíricos y humoristas,
o muy ingenuos, -si os parece-
en el café de los Mokistas
los Panidas éramos trece!
Sutiles frases y discretas,
y paradojas exotistas,
sentencias, sólidas, escuetas,
y jeroglíficos sofistas;
y las mordaces cuchufletas
envenenadas, -si os parece-
que en el Concilio de Agoretas
los Panidas éramos trece!
Y orquestaciones wagneristas,
-trompas y tubas y trompetas-, 1
o  serenatas mozartistas
y sinfonías y retretas
de los maestros exorcistas,
beethovenianos, -si os parece-,
que en el Salón (bombos o arpistas)
los Panidas éramos trece!
Y los de pluma o de paletas,
altos poetas o coplistas,
los violinistas y cornetas,
en veladas aquelarristas
-sesiones íntimas, secretas!-
y en bodegones -si os parece-
en esas citas indiscretas
los Panidas éramos trece!
Fumívoros y cafeístas
y bebedores musagetas!
Grandilocuentes, camorristas,
Crispines de elásticas tretas;
inconsolables, optimistas,
o indiferentes, -si os parece-
en nuestros Sábbats liturgistas
los Panidas éramos trece!
Ilustres críticos -ascetas
serios, solemnes, metodistas,
tribu de vacuos logotetas!: 2
andad al diablo! -si os parece-:
nosotros, -Bárbaros sanchistas!-,
los Panidas éramos trece!

i let your hand go, softly,

and

we parted our
separate ways.

the tracing in the sand
was washed away by
the foamy edges
of the gentle waves.

the driftwood
was swept out by
the misty tide
and off the shore

away from the
salty coast,
into the eternal,
pristine sea.

the violin solo was
carried by the breeze
and the tubas dove
deeper into their octave

the final breath of your name
touched my tongue,
and it was our
final goodbye.

Change seems inevitable.
Old sentences carry
different purposes.
Mold forms in old coffee cups
like modern paintings.
Tubas boom like thunderstorms.
Your age appears first
on the back of your hands.
A clock talks by ticking
or not at all.
The knot is not the rope.
Poets write only white lines.
Medications are altered.
The brain forgets itself.
Impatience scribbles nonsense.
We become heavier,
weighted and slower.
Playing the Sitar
becomes easy as whistling.
Tamed ostriches preen
in toy cowboy hats.
Lint tells secrets of navels.
Words float in bubbles.
The wicked become tender.
Voices ebb and echo
devoid of throats and tongues.
Speech nailed to walls
becomes the new poetry.
We burn the news
to warm ourselves.
Each dawn forms
a unique conclusion.
A moth destroys Chicago.
Vandalism is elevated
to curated folk art.
How can I be sure
these syllables are real
when everything changes
except the desire for coffee?
Please don't wake me up.
I want to remember this dream.

   ~mce

.

As I count crows
sitting on the clothesline
I see a shape in the distance
that I do not recognize
I move a little closer
but the ash trees bring a sad shade
and the lawn flashes its blades,
cutting directly to the heart
in syncopated beatings
like chopping wood in August
when the last saw
is locked away in the shed

I wipe the sweat from my brow
with a scarf scented of past evenings
chasing fireflies and drinking iced tea,
foggy memories in place of
bi-focals smeared and blurred,
unable to focus on the sticker burrs
pulled from my socks,
hanging on for dear life,
let alone the figure approaching
just past the produce stand with
apples and aspargus in season

Still I look,
peering beyond a fractured arbor
of beer bottle skeletons
situated at the far corner
of nowhere’s homestead, off-white pickets
and a rusted gate now
overgrown and over sown
in rows of corn field miseries,
shucked and burned in a steel barrel
down by the mud creek minstrels
playing broken strings
and bent tubas

When I realize it is you
coming home to me,
walking through the sunflowers,
an effervescent blue sky background glows,
roses bloom in pinks and yellows,
robins tend to their young
beneath a rainbow of blessings
in assorted hues and feathers
as what was once what I dreamed
now slowly becomes what I see,
returning to its former beauty
and the sun shines again

I step through the door
of the place which feels
more like home than my house

My ears fill
with sounds of drumsticks on drums
mallets on marimbas

My eyes fall upon flutes, clarinets
trumpets and tubas

I look up at my family
none of which are related to me
yet they
make
this
place
home.

NEVER A WRONG SONG

Looking for that lift up or a sample of real let down ,something snappy or simply sappy

To each their own what ever gets them in that zone ,giving s that often a real get up up & go

Hearing that sound brings many around, synchronized on the tempos & tones as they become catchy

Mixtures of words from sonnets about bonnets or biker trash screaming out wrath of fire from below

Valuable lessons brought out from musicians sessions laid upon our minds new feelings we accept gladly

Minus the lyrics still giving deeply, sound from symphonies left us reeling shiny Tubas to tiny piccolo's

Fortunes or flowers or all that love empowers ,earths fortunes & fables
often imaginations left to run wildly

Don't touch that dial it's not that vile,driving to the cube ,better than what is playing on the elevator's

So let the sound of reason not bring treason ,make it to your own pleasing sounds resound to make your day go nicely.

At times it gets hard to talk.
Instead of rambling about anything.
Most times I sit without saying a word.
Just sitting in thought.
Most times different conclusions are drawn.
This at all doesn't mean that anything is wrong.
Sitting in silence.

Admiring the space around.
Different noises are heard.
Finding their way between the lines.
Indented in brief moments.

Spurts of randomness.

Wadded up thrown to the side to make room for the next moment.

Often left blank.

Without a single use of expression.

Without a trail of lead or ink.

Just empty lines stacked and spread across a thin layer of cardboard.

An bent aluminum spine.

All stacked up waiting for a love worthy of notation.

Signatures of fluttering pages.

Familiar names and phrases.

Blank pages filled up in a parade of paragraphs.

If you listen close you'll hear the band tuning up.

Marching down empty lanes marked just for the occasion.

Inside there are large bold words filled with tubas and small lines felt with the mark of snares.

The procession of pen to paper.

In proclamation to one of the greatest loves ever found.

Sold in two different packages.

All in perfect silence as they travel down the same lane

The Tiara is back on the dresser.
My party shoes are on the floor.
The clock is well past midnight
And I’m the Birthday Girl no more.

My day was rendered as perfect
Everything went just as planned.
There were no major mix-ups -
A blessing from God’s divine hands.

The floats were created from magic
They were stunning in their appeal
The roses in so many colors made
It hard to believe they were real.

The bands each outdid the others
Their Tubas lined up in big rows.
The flag girls and pompoms were twirling;
Drum Majors were putting on shows.

The weather was cold in the morning
But warm in the late afternoon.
My tiara caught other’s attention
And that sent me over the moon.

We ended the day at the movies
To watch whatever was playing
“The Aquaman” was a debacle
That’s only if I’m kindly saying.

This birthday is etched in my mem’ry
A diamond among yearly pearls.
A treasure bestowed by a loved one
Who crowned me the luckiest girl.
                        ljm

metal of tubas
alloy of copper and zinc
a kind of band, brass

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                          Halftime Show – A James Bond Medley

          Arrangement by Cliff Clash, B.A., M.Ed,
          Choreography by Cliff Clash, B.A., M.Ed,
          And Ms. Feather Dream Jones-Clash, B.A.

In a dinner jacket from the theatre club
A sophomore spy-dances among the twirlers
Along the fifty-yard line all sodden with
The stench of muck and summer-sodden heat

The sodium lights cast a wicked glare
Upon the field and the concession stand
Where snackers in cartoon tees ignore
The blat of the tubas, the boom of the drums

The polyester uniforms now march away
While James Bond coughs in clouds of mosquito spray