I remember the day I met you.
On your thirteenth birthday, in fact.
Bright smiles and a mouth full of braces,
you were the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen.

You were so eager to learn
that you’d stay up until the late hours,
keeping me company while uncovering the wonders
of each note.

“It’s time for bed,”
your mother would scold,
and we’d reluctantly say goodnight.

You came to visit though,
again and again.
In return I’d whisper in your ear,
help you learn a new language.
You picked up quickly.

When your little sister
took a pen to my leg,
you were irate.

She etched a flock of sparrows -
nine of them, to be exact.
But I liked it.
It made me feel loved.

Until one day, you left.

Your final song is one I will never forget:
Clair de Lune.

In the aftermath,
every once in awhile someone would spot me and
tell me how beautiful I was,
but then wistfulness
turned to pity
as neglect took over.

Abandoned, I fared the elements
by myself for twelve winters
without your touch.
I stretched and I waned,
growing old prematurely.
My tune turned melancholy.

But even twelve years hadn’t erased
the memory of your fingerprints
on my keys.

Your wife found me again at an estate sale.
She shipped me home for your thirtieth.

You didn’t recognize me at first,
but by habit you reached down
and felt for the sparrows.

/I found you./

Remembering is hard to do.
Treading back though lost highways.
Like the old shanty clambar
By the dunes
in the summer so long ago.
The peeling paint and
smoke stained ceiling.
The little square of the dance floor.
.From the Wurlitzer.
Elvis wailing Love me Tender.
You in my arms so lovely
So young so sweet.
You could buy a huge bowl
Of steamers back then
for a couple of dollars.
God I miss you honey.
Why did have to go and die
on me.?
I pull the car into the parking lot
The clambar is a chicken shack now.
Hey it's gloomy as ever in here.
The Wurlitzer is still there.
I dump a quarter into it
Pressing B15
Elvis croons Love me tender
I see two ghost dancing close
On the dance floor.
But they tmight just be us.

It is surely in the hour of the day that the moment lives and gives us more than we think that the moment we live in gives,
when in the passing of the scattering of the fleeing images, we see some sense of an ending,some order to finality.
I may be right or wrong,
and that is the long and short of it but I am caught up and intend to free flow with it,to whatever that finality may be.

I see the end as beginning and in beginning this end, I tend to muse on those thoughts that are sent to confuse and send one into a spin,it's a waltz on the fairground,
a merry go round,a wurlitzer,blitzer,blockbuster and the lustre is still there,
shine on sweet time.

And it's all in those moments we often forget,those what if we did's and we didn't do yet,
and the wish it was me's but it is if please,
dismiss the hours in a day,
and those moments in absentia would lead you into dementia where you would not know the real from the moments that feel,right or wrong,each day is as long as the rest,
take the best of them
knit them in gold and hold onto them,without them you're old and grey and the day is still there,
watching you stare at the blank and the bleak and next week?
Next week
another moment will seek you,may find you but what you do is what counts in the end.

Patsy Sings That’s My Desire One More Time

A Story Poem
From
Jude Kyrie

The old place looks just the same, honey.
Just a rickety old bar by the dunes.
The Neon lights still spluttering in the night.
Its lost in time or perhaps more likely I am.
God how many times did we come here for
the shrimp basket and a couple of ice cold beers.

You were the most handsome boy in the class honey
I set my heart on you
the first time I saw you at the college.
Do you remember dancing so long ago?
You would hit the Wurlitzer with ten cents back then.
And Patsy would sing to us as we danced on the
small square of the parquetdance floor.

God, I miss you honey
I am still mad at you for dying on me.
The years have travelled by since you left.
There has been other imposters honey
I danced the choreographed
movements of love with them.

But when I was alone in my room in the dark
It was always you love
Only you knew the needs of me.

Here I am again the beer is ice cold
I drop a quarter into the Wurlitzer
Hit B17 and Patsy croons
That’s My Desire.

A couple of ghosts are dancing
But they might just be us, darlin

Bubbles
run up the sides
of the polished
green glass

and another pressed record drops
as the diamond needle
scratches
across its surface

music to our ears

that if we allow it
will find its way
to our hearts and fill our heads
with delectable food for thought

whit howland © 2021

It was wednesday evening as always..
Like clockwork the old man
Took his regular seat in the mostly empty
basement bar fuull of yesterday's
so out of place
living in a lost time.
he ordered two glasses
Of white wine
and put a quarter
Into the old wurlitzer jukebox

Patsy Cline always patsy
no one else.
Her sentimental tones filled
The room in gentle sweetness
From another time.
the new patrons
knew he was back.

To spend one night with you,
in our old rendezvous
And reminisce with you,
that's my desire

It was here he had  always taken her
dancing talking falling in love.
Every possible wednesday.
Right upto the time that heavens
Whispers called to her she
followed their haunting sounds
And they took her away from him.

So long ago now so very long ago
Patsy crooned softly as always

To meet where gypsies play,
down in that dim cafe
And dance till break of day,
that's my desire

he felt her hand slip nto his as usual
He stepped into her arms as always
And they were young once more
and so in love.

They danced alone
on the small dance floor.
The outside world faded away.
Patsy joined them singing
So beautifully their song

We'll sip a little glass of wine,
I'll gaze into your eyes divine
I'll feel the touch of your lips,
pressing on mine
To hear you whisper low,
just when it's time to go
Darling, I love you so,
that's my desire

he looked into ber beautiful eyes
Tilted her chin upward
And kissed her softly
Then as he sat down
tired and old.
She faded into the nightglow
He whispered softly
See you next Wednesday
My darling

As he left the café
He could hear patsy
Almost whispering
The last refrains
of his favorite song.

**That's my desire
That's my desire

Thats my desire


It was Wednesday evening
Like clockwork the old man
took his seat at his usual table
in the mostly empty
basement bar and ordered
two glasses of white wine
He put a quarter
Into the ancient Wurlitzer jukebox
full of records from another time.
Patsy Cline always Patsy
sprang into romantic melody
Her sentimental tones filled
The room in gentle sweetness
The years melted like ice in spring.

To spend one night with you,
in our old rendezvous
And reminisce with you,
that's my desire

It was thier song
It was here he always took her

dancing talking falling in love.
Every possible Wednesday.
Right up to the time heavens
whispers called to her she
followed their haunting sounds
and they took her away from him.

So long ago now
so very long ago.
Patsy crooned softly as always

To meet where gypsies play,
Down in that dim cafe
And dance till break of day,
that's my desire

Then as he fell almost into a dream
She took his hand as usual
He stepped into her arms
And they were young once more.
and so in love.
They danced alone
on the small dance floor.
The outside world faded away.
Patsy joined them singing
So beautifully their song

We'll sip a little glass of wine,
I'll gaze into your eyes divine
I'll feel the touch of your lips,
pressing on mine
To hear you whisper low,
just when it's time to go
Darling, I love you so,
that's my desire

he looked into her beautiful eyes
gently tilted her chin upward
and kissed her softly

Then as he sat down
She faded into the nightglow
of mystery.
He whispered softly
See you next Wednesday
My darling

As he left the cafe
in the cold night air.
He could hear patsy
Almost whispering
The last refrains

*That's my desire
That's my desire

Otto rode filthy down the slumpline onto Cowpers - past Bleaker's Brick, Mole Rat Slim's and Dave’s Sour Onion , on down to quayside all hooked and hungry. Flyer said Gracey Mae Beam was hoarding the stage at eleven, hitting the planks of Varlot’s Velvet Rope with no back-up - no thunder drum brass or strung out string section to stifle the hoots and howls of them mongrel boys scrapping over leavin’s. He knew the drill. Gracey would lead with “Heaven” then lilt dissonant into “Hell and Lula”, spin down into “Luna”, swing out riffs of “Hypnosis” and barrel into “Gun Metal Blue” and run “A Lass To Mara.” Yes, he knew the drill cuz the set was theirs, arranged in a one bedroom walk-up shotgun with a Wurlitzer and bad plumbing. ****, has it been that long? But Otto knew, felt it in a rib, it was coded on the leaflet - Gracey was playing Varlot’s - the first haunt - going it alone this time, no Wurlitzer, no Otto, just a dim lit backdoor black-smudged around the ****. He’d wait for her there, three smokes left and rationing. Three smokes left and hoping for a glint-eye nod.

‘Do you listen to music when you write?’

Duke Ellington ‘In a Sentimental Mood’ is a fave. Sets tone. Brings mood. Love some John Coltrane intermittent weaving throughout. That sax is like rain on Mars.

Miles Davis ‘Flamenco Sketches’
But what about Blue in Green? I like it but Flamenco sets the table. Give me Cafe Bustelo, French Vanilla, and this one and I’ll write your will out for you where everyone cries...

Moby ‘God Moving Over the Face of Water’ Deep, penetrative thoughts conquer over this. The piano makes me fly, brings me back down and sets me like a feather.

My Morning Jacket ‘Only Memories Remain’ Wrote a whole book to this. The Wurlitzer and then the guitar solo at the end is stupefying to me.
And how do I feel when I listen to these pieces?
What I see is what I write down:
My Father’s Hands
My Mother’s *******
Footprints in the snow
Bruises upon my soul
Forests on fire
Sunsets on Mars
Her naked woman curves
Highways into the night
Lava flows
***** feet
My daughter being born
Sunrise coming up from an ocean
Moss growing over everything
Brownstones in Greenwich Village
Empty wine bottles

The music helps
Amplifies
Energizes

What music do you listen to when you write?

No spotlight
that disappeared
years ago

now

just you wearing a madras jacket
loud shirt
and a polyester tie

leaning
against a varnished wooden rail
speaking into an old radio mic


trying to talk
over the Rolling Stones
on a Wurlitzer Jukebox

to no one
in particular

Remember the Empire?
no!
not that Empire,
the one in the square
where we went every Saturday,
the one with the Wurlitzer that
came out of the floor.

The Bowery Boys,
Tom Mix
Pathe News all
down at the pics.

those were the days which
were usually nights
watching Ali, in one of
his fights.

heroes in all of the shows
down at the Empire.

their councils priced themselves
straight out of the mystery market
augmentation via will power gone idiotic
still overrated by all the cackling heads
of all the Spring Break universities
deluded that they count for something
the professors rushed out into the night
tearing at their eyes what did they see
another circus chainsaw lobotomy
common as dirt in the modern era
so I pulled the stake from my heart
going for broke why not the game is rigged
waste no time on the miraculous
heaven is probably just an office job
no f-words but maybe x-rays
I guess you gotta be your own angel
guide yourself it's that simple
and have the dignity of a learner
lemme know how that works out
radar ******* not there when you look
bought me a week in a Gitmo cage
they slap your wrists and take your legs
with their grandiose fanaticism
wanted my Swiss bank account number
the hole in his head said hello
don't make me shout
over the din of your inner Wurlitzer
running like rats on a carousel
thanks to the beautific potential of things
somewhere out there is another Einstein
on I-5 near the cattle pens
we all want the authentic
but where does the aversion come from
if education is the wealth of a people
trying to end the reign of hairsplitting
and escape the labyrinths of doctrine
you'll be weeping for the human race too
with a tentative grasp of self
high as a kite but driving a straight line
through the headlights of truckers
more than one kind of perfect obviously
if we never slept it would be different
floating above the flames of memory
yes sometimes the call of the wild
is marginally somewhat overwhelming
to the higher cognitive deltas
made me wonder about the sheaves of wheat
that I kept in my Conn Bluenote
right now is freedom right now
and now we come to a standstill

From "Pageant of Naked Mischief" available on Amazon

Tobacco dust in an otherwise
empty pocket,
thankful for the makings
I roll a Barlinnie smoke

these small mercies
in an unjust living
give strength even to
the unwilling.

What if we never recover
what if
it's all over?

someone puts a coin in the
Wurlitzer and Elvis sings,
Heartbreak Hotel.