If you were here, what would I say to you
How can I express what is in my heart
How is it that I have such an overwhelming desire
For someone I have never met but it seems to me
I have known you for a lifetime and loved you forever
You are the familiar face that has always been part of my dream
Just to think that I am unable to reach out and touch you
That you are indeed tangible within my soul
What an abstract phenomenon you have etched in my mind
You have given me the only dream I wanted to become true
That I am loved by someone like you
It is inevitable that in my heart you will never become that
Nonfiction novel which ceases to find a romantic ending
You have fabricated through the impassable egnima
Of me, others have struggled to understand
You have penned your love sonnets within my heart
All the pieces fit so perfectly. We are each muse, so you tell me
I am your accompanist to wherever your words lead me
In this concurrence of fact and fiction
I can say with all the pureness of my heart
You are a dream come true my Cyberspace love
What an abstract phenomenon you have etched in my mind
After a long walk
I transcribed myself into piano music.
All night a harpsichord
had been jangling nerves,
rattling the same baroque concerto
over and over again.
I count I-100, then start over
counting and walking,
a clockwork organ
self-winding, always
pushing a moment before it
as if time could be saved
for later use.
The morning is mellowing out.
multiple fugal states row
in and out of salty ponds,
see-through-gulls rest
on opaque waters.
A powder wigged accompanist
pinches snuff
rams it up both nostrils
turns to an invisible audience
bows, sneezes, then farts.
Tight corseted lungs flap loose,
reveal a forgotten voice in a ribcage,
sad songs come out of its catfish mouth,
then laughing monks arrive
to dine on tongue and saffron.
The keyboard is stuck in the middle
of a thought,
a thought so long
that it pants and coughs
trying to keep up with itself.
After a long walk
I lay down in the back row
of a concerto and wave weary hands
at the ceiling
conducting next words
from tissue thin scores
and unfinished endings.
My choir director
is a painter
a music stand her easel
the choir loft her frame
her canvas is the air
we breathe in
and synchronously exhale
Sixteen voices are her paints
organized by color palettes
low ebony hues down there
bright primary tones over here
complementary colors placed in between
the accompanist creates a background wash
under her attentive ear
Following her calling with tenacity and talent
her hands pirouetting like ballerinas
expressive decisive intentional
coaxing cohesive chorales
conversing with the rhythm
she paints a sacred symmetry of
sanctified synergy in sound
// for Janet, my beloved choir director and bride of 35 years //
written 2 Aug 2020
You ...
are the breath of heaven,
an exhalation of the divine ire ...
a "l’appel du vide" angelic, pure,
accompanist to the day's glory,
a sacred diva's note, sustained
for the sheer indulgence of joy.
I dip my spirit's brush in your
blinding hot, golden brilliance,
and paint my day with dazzle ...
I splatter the canvas of my soul
with your shimmering brilliance,
bristles let loose of life's splendor.
The result, a framed exuberance
worthy of Pollock and Kadinsky,
but born of the colors of daylight ...
the essence of wonder renewed,
and the sublime realization of
all that it means ...
to LIVE.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Completely New 16, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.