There you go
mind like an accordion
with eyes aglow
and first to start
words pile up
into a pile of ashes
enough to fill me up
and smother my heart
was there a reason
for crashlanding
was it out of season
or just a mess
there’s rot in the bone
for so many say no
though prone
to the eternal yes.
I play the best instrument of all the boy said
We guessed drums, guitar, sax, stated Ned
“No, no, no,” he shook his head
We were out of idea by the time we went to bed
I’ll bring it by and play you a tune
He finally showed up late afternoon
It is an accordion! We thought this funny
Until he started making decent money
It seems weddings and funerals pay big
For those who bring an accordion to a gig
Who knew this? Who would have believed that?
He is now living in splendor, our friend, Matt
They come together all in one place
tinker and traveller, Roma and gypsy,
with all who belong by grace as one race
under one roof while no one seems tipsy.
Count Me In has begun with a gesture
Appleby St Lawrence offering the space
for each here to hear in a new venture
music uplifting for all to embrace.
Skills arising from guitar and fiddle,
accordion and harp, percussion and pipe,
folk songs and ballads, nothing too little,
poems and testimony, hopeful and ripe.
Many expressions of who each of us are
brought here together wherever we're from.
Home made refreshments (milk from the Spar)
sustaining the fun, with applause like a prom.
'What does this mean?' with Festival and Fair
combining as one in celebration.
Just like Pentecost there's joy in the air
harmony overcoming separation.
With all our difference we are together
fired by the Spirit it's a time to treasure.
Appleby Horse Fair with reference to Acts chapter 2
Emotional moments will bellow,
an accordion of anger.
Incendiary contact,
rushes into a mash
of conniption fits.
With all you are
shouldering
the strap
snaps.
I feel like ripping out a gangrenous wound!
Incessantly playing a broken accordion
My mind's repurposed angels distribute a few alms for the rain god
And the scent of old trunks falls on my cloned funeral
I encase my senses in the pit between lal-mim/sol-fa
I now have a house, crooked lives churning within my tiles
I am against—you are against—all the laws of physics.
Cigarette butts that never cease to smoke fall from the sky.
You are something that always feels cold. Hiding Dali in your body
That's why elephants make love alone. Storms, a great curse
I saw myself in the first shelter of hydrangeas
I cut my cord, in defiance of the all-out pain in my back
I feel like ripping out a gangrenous wound
Yet, it won't be mentioned in any medical book, and you won't know why
I simply drew your blood...
stars in eyes
two brothers
nay, friends
hugging
accordion bellowing
the preacher waltzing
the friends hurraying
celebratory
partying
in old westward ho
old-fashioned merrymaking
without all the noise
of the media
a tiny huddle
of villagers in dim light
do stars guarantee a brighter camaraderie?
This is the tale of young Polkahontus.
She lives in the forest; her aim is to taunt us.
The squeezebox is ancient; it’s lacquered and red;
she communes with the spirits and plays for the dead.
She gives the accordion a little squeeze;
the raspy sound out of it’s more like a wheeze.
She dances and prances and plays in the wood;
I’d drop a tree on her if I only could.
At dusk she gets started down there in the vale;
I’ve fingered my crossbow with thoughts to impale.
In the rain, in the snow, even bitter and cold,
she’s playing that polka; Good Lord, it gets old.
I’m at my wit’s end, so I get down the rifle
with murderous thoughts of a squeezebox to stifle.
I aim through my scope with the polka red dot,
but I won’t pull the trigger, ‘cuz that polka girl’s hot!
none of the McCormicks knew which insect had made the crying sounds
odd since usually every McCormick is an expert about thirty-nine things
I know because my mother and her sixty-two sisters are all McCormicks
Some of the McCormicks do not bother to marry, cannot find ample fodder.
Is this ample enough? Cousin Lewt asked, dragging a McCormick home.
Isn’t he your cousin? Asked sixteen McCormicks. I sat quietly for once.
Wanting to see another beat down or put down at a McCormick reunion.
Daddy, who was a Stone gave me a wink; he was feeling smug too.
The Stone reunion is famous for brawls, fights, and police reports.
PS spoiler alert, the crying sounds were noises from a long-horned beetle.
Played on the accordion located between her front and back legs.
Even I with my magnificent imagination, cannot make this crap up.
The poet strings his words on feet,
While the songster sets his to the beat.
Are they similar or the same?
Are they different in more than name?
The singular of feet is foot.
A boot is where our feet are put.
The singular of beats is beat,
But that’s not where we put our feet.
And so it is, without dispute,
A beat to a foot we can’t impute.
An accent can’t go on a boot -
Except with accordion or flute.
Instead, the accent’s on the beat,
And that is also true with feet.
They met each other in the circus, their son told me.
I was watching them balance each other on one lone knee.
They were fascinating, I had never seen
Anything as delightful, joyful, or completely keen.
His mother hung by the rafters and gave me a nod.
His father was playing an accordion, they were neither one a fraud.
I loved eating dinner at their table, watching their performing ways.
Frankly, I could have moved in and stayed for days.
Inhale, exhale, like accordion-
organ of music in your being, conducive.
Nor elusive to your counterpart, woman.
Be thou what you love to be.
Do not listen to militants
that whisper fighting words out of insecurity,
that smell a foul smell,
of self burning the fields,
the green things of bountiful yields,
leave us choking on the smoked embers,
entrails of the tares, and quardon off cultivation
for the Valleys of shale.
Overtaken, by crawling things.
Or a boastful hare, with Men's running shoes and masculine fare.
Always in a race, bating with trickery,
the illusionist Tortoise against her own shell.
Nourishment is an honor bestowed.
Remember, that the servant is truly the King.
The provider is the Matriarch held in the greatest of steams,
saute of the home,
taste of generosity,
aroma of security.
Yang, you have quite the mistress,
indeed the support of a mystery,
remember this, well.
I am unsure if there's some general word I am going for, but it best fits into the mix, and that would be, 'inspiration.' Having that said ... straight to the heart of the matter ... my mom.
Self-driven, accomplished, multi-talented, advocator of The Word, loving daughter, sister, cousin, wife, mother, aunty, grand and great-grandmother, and lastly, not a stranger to people kind of a person, more like, "Is she your mom!", kind of a people person, ... and kind too.
Her talents beyond The Word were in music. She plays any musical instrument, from a tambourine to an accordion, and the organ to the drums. Practically everything in between like a harmonica, but her ace was the ukelele and guitar.
She composed hundreds of songs, wrote all the lyrics and accompanying medleys.
Today, her compositions grace many churches in the country, besides Hawaii, since she traveled a lot being an Evangelical minister.
If it wasn't for poetry, I'd be a 60's year-old kid who never had a mom.
Pretty princess accordion playing clown
Skips her truth sideways and upside down
I watch her sprinkle joy all over town
Glad that no one else can keep her down.
Big muscles of the organ grinder, his biceps burning.
Cranking springs, the tired, but cheerful, Italian chap.
Many chapters of his life on streets of cold cement.
His beard, silver tone; his worn hat filled with coins.
You’d expect for the old legs to be moving, it rests
as the tunes be calling, beckoning through windows.
Accordion sounds be arousing smiles and curiosity.
Melancholy dirges wet the shoulders of the bitties.
Again the pedals and thighs grind along, travelling
as the kids and townsfolk wave goodbye. On his
merry way, feet tapping, ladies dancing, men puffing
on their pipes and cigars. The music says so long.
And another group gathers in the waning sun, waiting
for their favorite song; and the grinder gladly plays,
telling a story, with his barrel rolling, his pins caressed.
Kaput - he moves into a museum, a blast from the past.
Deposited, held in Amazon's Adonis arms
Hidden inhospitably stashed, kite shadow
Curled furtive, stairway stupefied windshield
Hallucinations lag languished in amusement
Monkeys freeze, screech scamper scratch
Egg smooth roof unscathed cubby abode
Jagged gaps hang fur curtain climbing mates
Swung carefree in cramped homecamp humid
Aghast lopped log rest exhales raggedly
Snapped propeller askew salutes defeat
Wing bent lungs transform fortitude into fuel
Crushed accordion bodied anaconda swivels
Lock jaw latch tight to jungle gym frame
Liquid flow flanks scale, giant slug glued
Fork tongue tastes rain drip following day hope
Fangs prong Coconas sour tomato gold codicil
Cluster juice burst berries, bittersweet bulbs
Knobs of Contreu twisted tangerine vitamin
Fibre feeds faith indispensible, thin torsos entwined
Fight against forbode of abandonment, exhausted
Anonymous Minor Survivors
Middle of Jungle June
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