Maestros Poems

But a Whisper

O gentle sleep. Most precious of secrets
Carefully placed between sunlight and twilight’s touch of warm air and wet kiss

Asunder from me, Yet all of me woven into a spiders web of silken spun strings. Reliving each and every moment in one’s lifetime. Again, then yet again.

Bizarre creatures I’ve created, shouting messages of concern. The very monsters that haunted my childhood. Now offering guidance, sworn allegiance to me for they know they have been conquered, so long ago.
A maestros wand, weaves a tapestry so intricate. Each line intersects. Yet does not interfere with one another.

O welcome sleep. With each worry and every dream. Days labor comes to end
On soft pillows where I’m lead towards a fantasy, I must then, take part in an eternal play
Filled with obscurity and dismay 
In search of meanings to each day.

Maestros Violin

Maestro’s violin floated to heaven ahead, clearing way for his gentle soul
Notes from Stradivarius warmed the angel’s hearts, reminding them
Rivaling classical melodies from other cloud realms, butterfly notes
Souls hearing the Stradivarius gravitated more quickly to the spirit realm
Floating to elegant luxury of the richest classical tones and whispers
Each heard their own unique life path, notes that nurtured winged selves.
Maestro recognized his instrument seconds after his soul left his body

Virtuoso

Letter chosen "V"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Virtuoso

Carnelian dawn reflects red sun rising,
Mirrors glow of vermillion flycatchers,
With scarlet plumage, so mesmerizing,
Dawn’s songbirds – virtuoso stature.

Flight song resounds through the still morning mists,
Woodland thickets embrace the day song,
Artists on wings with bright feathers flame kissed
Warble sweet aves on garnet birdsongs.

Vigil for daybreak in tones cinnabar
Matins’ maestros in morning’s sung prayers,
Amber strains from coquelicot popstars,
Lauds for the Daystar ring through newborn airs.

Cloaked in vermillion at evening's first light,
Songbirds wait to sing in red-orange delight.

Clerihew Strauss

The Strauss family dynasty
maestros indeed all three
Johann Joseph & of course Richard
both musicians& bard

India's Mukesh, Kavi Pradeep, My Death

No argument, no caste, nothing will matter
When India's erstwhile maestros sang in Hindi
Though mine is sparse, their songs made me traditional
O cultural shell! Wired so Indian, South African me
Millions in India, thanks Bollywood, will still sing along

Critical Race Theory 2021

Black folk kept in sad condition
By owners without contrition.
What to do, what to do?
Wage war for emancipation
And forge a fresh slave-free nation.

The Forrest-Byrd Klan and Jim Crow
Surely are the ones you should stow –
What to do, what to do?
They rule and oppress your city
Blame them not ones who set you free!

Martin loved character content
With black and white talents lent
What to do, what to do?
Stevie and Paul in unity
Played in sweet keyboard harmony.

Smooth Barack cooed high in A sharp
As Hillary lowed in B flat
What to do, what to do?
So white folks, none playing a harp,
Chose the black, how racist was that?

Oppressed rainbow coalition -
All races rate full admission.
What to do, what to do?
Name trophy oppressor maestros
Amin, Mao, Adolf, and Castro.

Critical race theory, woke
Marxist, oppressive and no joke!
What to do, what to do?
Its rancid retro racist sin
Embalmed in landfill would fit in.

Celtic Poetry In the Rising Sun

lovely words prance into her mind at night
spiritual guide helps with all of their might
exotic phrases dancing big and bright
but some disappear into the morning light

creativity resounds within thee
the maestros who understand let her be
she writes her poetry with insane glee
crazy ideas wonderfully free

the missives are coming in three’s and two’s
fantastic ideas, they cannot lose
imagination echoes from her muse

amazing effort as the day is done
Celtic poetry in the rising sun
congratulates self, in honor of one

The Glue That Holds Us To the Canvas

Like sparks trailing
from a million, billion fireflies,
a single thought limns a trillion suns.

From the first small bonfire
flickering across four million years,
whose light imprints itself
upon the canvas backdrop
of a feckless, barely cohesive Infinity,

the matter of man, no more than
the past, transmogrifies the future --

denies the import of "real" or "black"

or any other type of matter.
Yet existing, it defines the local locus
of now and when ... and how and then.

The freezing cold of space
burns like energy backfiring on itself.
Somewhere, celestial lightshows
flare across parsecs of near emptiness.

Liquid oxygen fuels
the laboring lungs of multitudes,
singing out the music of the spheres,
maestros of a trillion symphonies,
platelets in the lifeblood of the Universe.

Like a Coriolis wave that imprints itself
upon a formless sandstorm,
a thought burns itself
into the very fabric of Eternity,
opens like a budding flower,
and initiates its own realities.




https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ibPT24qMTw
 

Author notes
Je suis un Capricorn.

]
This is my Desiderata.
 
Written December 2nd, 2005

H I J K L M and N

Hippy hyena hid hipster hippo’s hysteria.
Ignominious iguana ignored Iceland’s icky industries.
Jovial jelly jars joyfully jumped jubilantly into June.
Kind kangaroos killed Kansas’s killjoy kindnesses.
Loving lithe llamas languished, lacking lonely leaders.
Marvelous magnificent magicians masqueraded as maestros.
Needless nutcrackers helped hippy hyenas hide hippos’ hysteria.

Tanka Times Two - Time and Clocks

Time racing quickly
       
                         Clocks ticking madly

The measures are absolute
   
                         Conducting meters of life
    
Keep pace with the race
      
                         With synchronized hands

Like maestros gaining control
  
                         You must act now or never
  
Join the endless concerto
      
                         To achieve your finish line


August 14, 2019

Contest: Invitation To Play
Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper

Two Tanka Intermingled; 
Read as one 10-line poem,
or read separately as two 5-line poems.

Tanka syllables: 5, 7, 5, 7, 7

Magnificent Masquerading Marauders

Magnificent marauders masquerading magically might mean 
Messy mollusks masticate marbled marigolds momentarily. 
Maybe. 
Moreover, momentous mosquitoes might make marvelous mini-muffins mixing marmalade momentarily. 
Meanwhile 
Minnie made monthly memories merely medicating masses 
Mediocre men mysteriously manufactured man-made missals 
Might mean 
Millionaires mystify magical muggles’ meager melodies making 
Magnifying, mollifying mortifying mind-blowing majestic missives. 
Moreover, 
Mummies, mammograms, mushrooms, minks, musicians, 
Models, maestros, minions, muskrats, merry men 
May 
Momentarily medicate marvelously magnificent marauders. 
Meanwhile 
Mary May memorize multiplication minimizing 
Mark’s Mother’s marmalade mini-muffin memory. 
M might make momentous mountain-mincing molehill.

The Maestro Fiasco

The maestros affair was very slick
but one night he forgot the lipstick
wife took one peek
saw lipstick on his cheek
saying its now time to face the music.


12-02-17

Songs of Old

A rhythmic sketch of melodies new
 Often leaves some singing the blues
 Bereft of passion and desire
 Unable to spark a musical fire

 Tenuous tunes leave us to sigh
 As music changes as time goes by
 A piano interlude with brittle notes
 Falls apart, unable to float

 Maestros of old would demurely smile
 As they tickled the ivories with style
 As these musical gems subside
 Somewhere along the way, the music died

 The immutable beauty of songs of old
 Framed in memories, dipped in gold
 The formidable classics of rock and roll
 And rhythm and blues with lots of soul
                         --
 10-24-17

Masterpieces

Have you ever marveled at the maestros’ pieces?
Have you?
Composers – who capture with music
Moods which can move us…
Writers – who work with words which
Amaze and absorb us…
Craftsmen – who produce with patience
Art which astounds us…
Painters – who create on canvas and sketch with skill
Landscapes and portraits and pictures to ponder
What genius, what greatness, what treasure invested!
Have you ever considered their value?
Have you?
Is it intrinsic or is it acquired?
Determined by men because in time they’re admired
Some are uncovered, their worth discovered
The master renowned, his work has been found
But many lie buried and won’t be exhumed
Their potential lying forever entombed
Maestro and masterpiece together
Deprived of the glory
In this life’s mysterious story

No Fans Left

My name is Black.
My mouth is diseased.
I walk on walls behind your back.
I've come for your soul.
You had it out on lease.
(You forgot.)

Stop tending to the chickens,
Or don't stop tending to the chickens.
Either way there are no fans left for anything to be hitting them.
But if they were still around they would get hit by you-know-what.
So don't touch me.
Don't tick me off.
I send the weak and injured off screaming in horror.

Mostly I'm just misunderstood, though.
I call a spade a club.
I turn maestros into minstrels,.
Melancholy into minestrone.
I eat sadness and vomit out anger.

I'm a riot at parties for the first five minutes,
Then I'm the mom you didn't call,
The key you left in the car,
The ringing in your ear,
The stinging in your throat.

I'm the faint chittering you hear 
Somewhere in your bed,
Somewhere near your head.

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