I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of crows
takeoff at once, their clatter is musical,
it is an hour-long symphony
played in a single moment.
My Scots grandmother
would sing to me in her Highland tongue
sounds so beautiful that my brain
would stop deciphering or even thinking.
I recall now those chanting-chimes.
Mozart must have leapt from his bed often.
I wonder did he stumble around lighting candles,
cursing the dark until he found his keyboard?
Did he lay his sleepy forehead on that forte-piano
willing himself to recall the bitsy songs
of Pipistrelle bats?
My head swings from the pillow.
If I could only reach that pencil,
but it has moved-on,
to a place where Celtic grannies,
and jet-black crows wait
to enter some other dream.
My closed eyes have crashed
against an image;
I am a boat moored to a storm.
I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of crows
take off at once – they clatter – it’s musical,
it is an hour-long symphony
played in a single moment,
you hear it all but can’t separate the wing-beats.
My Scots grandmother (a natural born Celt),
would talk to me in her Highland tongue;
sounds so beautiful that my brain
would stop deciphering or even thinking.
I can’t now remember her wry wisdom,
not a thing,
I just recall the chanting-chimes.
Mozart must have leapt from his bed often.
I wonder did he stumble around lighting candles,
cursing the dark until he found his keyboard?
Did he lay his sleepy forehead on that forte-piano
willing himself to recall the bitsy songs
of Pipistrelle bats?
My head swings from the pillow.
If I could only reach that pencil,
but it has moved-on,
to a place where Gaelic grannies,
and jet-black crows wait
to enter some other dream.
My closed eyes have crashed
against an image;
I am a boat moored to a storm.
I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of crows
all take off at once – they clatter – it’s musical;
1t’s an hour-long symphony
played in a single moment,
you hear it all but can’t separate the wing-beats.
My Scots grandmother (a natural born Celt),
would talk to me in her Highland tongue;
sounds so beautiful that my brain
would stop deciphering or even thinking.
I can’t now remember her wry wisdom,
not a thing,
I just recall the chanting-chimes.
Mozart must have leapt from his bed often.
I wonder did he stumble around lighting candles,
cursing the dark until he found his keyboard?
Did he lay his sleepy forehead on that forte-piano
willing himself to recall the bitsy songs
of Pipistrelle bats?
My head swings from the pillow.
If I could only reach that pencil,
but it has moved-on,
to a place where Gaelic grannies,
and jet-black crows wait
to enter some other dream.
Music, music, it’s in the air,
Here is a list of what I hear:
A B C D E F G
(1 e & a) (1 2 3)
Rhythm, beat, timing, and tempo,
Fermata, rest, and accelerando,
Forte, piano, half, and whole,
Quarter, dotted, and staccato,
Sharp, flat, and natural, too,
4/4, 3/4, 6/8, and 2/2,
Measure, scale, and arpeggio,
Chord, seventh, and legato,
Major, minor, and decrescendo,
Crescendo, seventh, and ritardando,
Staff, spaces, lines, and strings,
Sixteenth, in-tune, and fingering,
Woodwind, brass, position, and trill,
Treble, bass, mellow, and shrill,
Percussion, composer, style, and key,
Quickly, lively, somber, and freely,
Triplet, tone, tied, and up-beat,
Pick-up, slur, eight, and down-beat.
You may hear music here and there,
But I hear music everywhere.
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