Fingertips
fall—
not like
stones,
but like rain,
plucked silver
threading the air.
Each string
holds a hush,
a breath not yet
forgotten.
The musician builds—
not a score,
but the curve
of a heron’s wing
skimming dusk
softly vanishing
in a single glissando.
The guzheng does not speak.
It spills:
vibrato,
a tide rising
then breaking
against memory.
Sound leans back—
not toward silence
——but toward a
distant shore
we once
heard.
________________
Note: Guzheng is a traditional Chinese musical instrument.
sound of blues ripples on--
smokey tunes blowing hot
sizzling flamed mood...it's jazz!
sax notes intoxicate
swirling like coltraine's grind,
soulful trance whips my breath...
spice of night, weekend jives!
jaw harp
listen to my voice
it is your voice that I breath through, though
your secrets are whispered but by my arouse
speak my thought
o sing me
no, the instrument
not the president
jews harp, jaw harp
plucked from thy heart
by the shaman heals
meditation steals
its rhythms
across realms
eventualities
and through centuries
tricked by its old name lure
tricked by its sound, nature
jewes trump for a king
heck why not, a politician
We're all instrument
In many ways, fit, we can
Other's amusement.
they streaked past us so fast
I was not sure who was in the lead
that's my granddaughter and her puppy
explained my neighbor, Mrs. Sneed.
They never stopped running
throughout the house, even on the couch.
The little girl fell off a couple of times
But she was tough, we never heard an ouch
they sure are having fun, I said, not sure what else to say
They are so much fun, Mrs. Sneed replied. But I am glad it’s only but one day.
For when they go home, I am exhausted and have to rest two hours.
They ran past us several more times, wet now, due to lovely April showers.
harp
to the mouth at the mic
on one side
the awe-maker
on the other side
the awestruck
harp
to the ear at the air
invisibly gained
bleed the crowd
there is something about
the simplistic shape of a conundrum
an ancient voice in modern mouth
in cartloads for the few to quell
where ice finding comfort in flames
many a throat bending breath
singing like electric birds of paradise
fully charged and chirping
hum and twang and cooing purr
songbirds, my blackened raven
thaw from towers, steel beauty, caw
across tropics, canopies and solitudes
sweet openings to a midnight's play
oh warm to my lips, my songbird, warm
we fill each other, marry
beyond the cartoon spring in Scooby Doo
like a stag on a mountain’s rippled rove
a dimensional wormhole letting feelings through
bringing words of secrets, a couple’s love
an instrument whose song comes from within
a pluck, the kiss upon the lips
my meditation, a distant lawn mowing
bring me syllables served in porcelain cups
and the shaman knew its cosmic worth
a healing voice like a Tuvan’s throat
deep flames that crackle in the hearth
or further down to magma’s note
the twang, its cry articulates
with the warming drizzle of chocolate
What happens to this poetry embroidered within the walls of my heart,
When the joy of my words are shattered underneath your feet,
Can the torture of your empty moon paint a slithering promise,
Far across into my deep colorless dreamscape of dahlias,
Your dry eyed apologies took me to a mortal with no reflection,
As you hide behind your short lived excuses and homed cruel intentions,
Like a fool I was to believe that a rose could bloom in the peeks of winter,
While broken instruments illustrated a weak illusion,
Shame, These knees you held with such tender affection,
Poured our tales into my abstract dreams,
How you wandered into my eyes casting a waning crescent,
Hoping the fragrant of a swine won’t clear my sight,
I’ve stood by the hills, where it steeps down your hell,
Perhaps the burdens you trust and love are the saint in your spells,
Claiming clarity for a chaos that have you deeply compelled.
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace,
That I too may have it,
For how else can I share Your peace,
Unless I first may have it.
Give me Your light and let it shine,
Through My every word and deed;
For how else can I light the dark,
Unless You first light mine.
Be a guide unto my feet,
That I may follow Thee;
For how else can I guide the lost,
Unless You first guide me.
Give me Your wisdom Lord, I pray,
And let Your strength be mine;
For how else can I counsel,
Unless my example shines.
Lord, be my light and guide and strength,
For I stumble all alone.
Hold my hand so I won't fear,
And lead me safely home.
La la la, tink tink tink!
Well now, what do you think,
Of my pretty li'l song?
I sing it all day long.
La la la, tink tink tink!
Well now, what do you think?,
Tap a piano key
And sing along with me.
La la la, tink tink tink!
Well now, what do you think,
When you play each li'l note
And sing the song I wrote?
La la la, tink tink tink!
Well now, what do you think?,
A song for me and you.
Music was meant for two.
La la la, tink tink tink!
Well now, what do you think,
About our happy tune
We sing all afternoon?
(March 29th, 2023)
I envy the precision
of the engineer,
the grounded exactitude
of a trade, to be able
to hold phenomenon within
the spell of an equation,
have the power to make
something from a sum.
I make things from shadows,
the pulled threads
of a mirage and echoes
bubbling up from the bottom
chambers of a void. I work
with the vagaries of whim,
waiting for something to appear
from who knows where,
letting a shape emerge
from beneath a ghostly
gauze of words or reveal
its nature by a residue
of absence left
in the wake of its going.
I am a gatherer of what
is carried on the wind,
the fragrance of flowers,
moans uttered
on lonely shorelines
by the voices of restless seas,
the cry of nightmares,
the crescendos of love,
becoming for a moment
an instrument in some
vast orchestra through which
a divine song is being played.
Find my glutton for this rap button to come sneaking up on em/
I’m pretty good at running so let me run it up on em/
Time for me to gain traction with these tracks slung/
Alive more than I ever been in action go figure/
Never still with my stature my line’s never flat sir/
Hearts even more on beat than I need give it to her/
A crib for the burr or heat to surge the birds on my wire
I ribbed the instrument or sound heard words on fire
A web of affection and all life’s beautiful sorrows
An assortment of moments that make up all tomorrows
Laying broken on the floor
Wounded through the core of victory
My heart is electrified but broken.
As flaming thoughts flash through my head
The substance of my action
Subdued a fraction of his life
Even though the knife of deceit was part of the equation!
“The heart is the only broken instrument that works”
It stretches out in the dark and grabs the soul
While it flourishes in the production of words!
Far beneath the solid order of man is the reflection of his heart
Pain can only last for a season and that which was claimed
As a victory at the time was a channel for a future sacrifice!
The substance of my action
Subdued a fraction of his life
Even though the knife of deceit was part of the equation!
A web of affection and all life’s beautiful tomorrows
An assortment of moments that make up all sorrows
But the heart does not fear because in reality
“The heart is the only broken instrument that works”
Mark Frank
Copyright 2022
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