Best Practicing Poems
My brother, Kim, had great hands for playing the piano. With one hand he had a spread of more than octave. Almost every afternoon, I overheard him practice easy tunes at first, like ‘Carry me Back to Old Virginia’ or a simplified version of Beethoven's ‘Ode to Joy.’
As he progressed to more complicated pieces, I slowly became aware that although technically outstanding, he had no true feel for the music! He just practiced out of duty to our mother rather any real love.
sunlit window
scales when he wanted
to be playing baseball
Published - Cattails - Winter - 2016
An herbaceous arbor
flanks the harbor
where he labors
fitting words to spaces --
blanks he fills, erases.
He savors bits of meaning,
sculpting sound to logic's shape,
annealing word and image,
polishing a verbal mound
congealing on his pad.
A bird chirps.
Song distracts.
A moment's lapse.
He compares the bird's
with his own work,
considers form and content,
sees the gaps,
tosses his dead page
into the water's murk.
Practicing for Easter
I had heard from God high overhead
In heaven and here is what He said
Sings songs about me and my Son
On bright sunny day until it is done.
Songs in mind and heart start singing
Closer to God are constantly bringing
Who with others should always share
For your songs and poems always care.
When you start practicing each song
Only do it for short time and not long
Practice loudly and also with full force
Voice will be scratchy and end up horse.
Choir and organist together shall feel
All of their sounds are on an even keel
Doing it this way over and over again
And much better will begin to blend in.
Easter morning bring all of your friends
And shivers up spine our singing sends
You are sure to know from very start
God is in their singing and also heart.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Wife told me after choir practice
before Maundy Thursday service
that all of the practicing was
making her become horse.
a beautiful thing
butterfly whispers a kiss dreamed
gentle breeze blowing
~~~
in soft wrinkling hands
in the graceful age of time
in wisdom shared
~~~
echos softening
star fruits glistening in the night
i still hear you there
~~~
written words of love
passions etched deep into soul
timeless in the hand
~~~
golden lotus opens
universal transcendence
illumination
~~~~~~~~~~
if I miscount my syllables, please do let me know, still working on it. xo
these for me are really difficult! I praise you Haiku Masters in here!
My brother, Kim, had great hands for playing the piano. With one hand he had a spread of more than octave
Almost every afternoon, I overheard him practice easy tunes at first--tunes like "Carry me Back to Old Virginia" or a simplified version of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy."
As he progressed to more complicated pieces, I slowly became aware that though technically outstanding, he had no true feel for the music! He just practiced out of duty to our mother rather any real love of music!
scales
when he wanted to be out
playing baseball
My shoes are the strong silent type in that
they rarely throw fits about the weather
as flip-flops do nor demand tit-for-tat
consideration when worn together
with socks. It should come as little surprise
then that they’re white and grey, underemployed
running shoes, meaning long strolls at sunrise
are just what they sound like: footsteps devoid
the prerequisite urgency to shift
directions as deemed necessary by
either myself or my feet when adrift
through trance-like stables of the butterfly
where train engineers mimic the station
of glacier-laced shoe-string transformation.
You caught me, didn't you?
Indulging in a vacuous reality
I'll never understand, nor truly know
for it is merely locus of a bold phenomenon
we call synaptic in a brain,
but for the mystery of sense,
we cannot prove is there.
But it works, doesn't it?
Any old reality will do;
my preference is the moment
that cannot be seen
and to adapt the old cliche
in new dress, come what may,
sight unseen with some reluctance
rules both night and day.
Be warned, for it is I
who squeezes joy from
such things nihilistic,
I forever spewing sequiters
that non or otherwise defile
the ears of anyone in quest
of truth.
A toast, my friends, to nothingness!
Content be damned, or sanctified;
there is the challenge of discovery--
of worlds we dare not dream.
and there is noone to adjudicate
the what, or when, or why of it.
Bon chance! For there is hope,
if not of victory,
then an unfinished now.
~
Most of the music I’ve written will never see the light of day
I guess it wasn’t meant to be heard here
But that’s okay because still I persevere
Driven by a sense that it’s not for nothing
That there’s an eternity coming…
Where the symphonies in my head
Will finally be scored
Where the walls
Will playback their tapes
Where all of the ideas
Those remembered, and those long-forgotten
Will proclaim that it’s time
Where all the years of practice
Will reveal that it has been for something
That I was being honed for the ultimate performance
Or maybe not…
Maybe it was just for the sheer pleasure of it
To be enjoyed only within the confines of the finite
And that’s okay too
But I really don’t believe that…
Practicing the presence
in the void of stillness,
rekindling innocence
in vibrant blissfulness,
bursts forth effervescence.
Practicing the presence
in childlike wonderment,
our inner sentience
ignites the joy current,
nestled in contentment.
Practicing the presence
as our breath gently flows,
the burning bliss incense,
our heart’s cravings mellows,
gracing soul’s ambience.
Practicing the presence
in quiet surrender,
unbound is heart’s vibrance
in rapturous thunder
of our luminescence.
02-May-2022
We
Practicing Artistry
Meet again
At a modern cafe
on another lovely day.
Words from friends
Amends....
Delights, enlights and with all rights
Hallelujah (friends)
Amen !!
The movers wheeled the piano in the apartment
my tutors revealed plateaus climbed as an artist
hours flying pages turned black and white keys charted
scoured trying ages I played packed plight I started
recitals, concert halls, from practicing hardest
reprisals, my art calls, the piano sits modest
In my twilight years I teach children to harvest
the wild bright light nears, to each the piano harnessed
The scratching wakes me up
Ridiculously unsatisfying
Yet notoriously put there by shingles
Or excruciatingly painful allergen.
A scream for help
Time is in my way
Sorry I sid not sneak my Excedrin pm into hospital
Morphine is not cutting it.
Each time more insistent
On a more potent drug
Here's a picture of Hindrix practicing on stage;
how tender is the revealing image...
as he strokes the guitar's strings,
exaggerating the pitches of his melodies!
Rock was Hindrix's joy...he loved
to play it while crowds were dancing;
he laughed between breaks, knowing
that it'd have been globally shared!
Fire
Is the big rage
Of a fed up man who
Took a look at his little school
And decided it was not worthy of
Him and destroyed the cursed school
Claiming it was for the
Best good what a
Fire
Practicing the works of God
In every day that I am blessed
He has anointed me with wisdom
The Holy Spirit is what I possess
I walk in the path of righteous
Even when the devil is near
I close my eyes and smile
For the devil won't be heard by these ears
I am now a child of God
Full of strength and love
Though at times I may get weak
There's no quitting from up above
Thank you for your mercy
Giving grace is now priority
I have been saved is all its sense
Thanks for the forgiveness you have shown me
Sharing the Word is what I must do
The motivation comes as a means
I won't fight back the blessings
Because it's all that I will ever need
I walk away from the worldly
As much as I can take
Easy is not in nature
Yet fear has been replaced
Oh, I am so thankful
Heart full of joy
I have been forgiven and chosen
Now it's time the new me can explore