Pumpkins are made
For pies
And pies are made
For jack-o-lanterns
To
Please little girls
Who ride swings high over the city on
Cold
Mornings when others
Have found the schoolhouse
Under the ghetto waiting to transform the little leftovers
Into Wallstreetbogeymen scaring the country into
Unwanted
Growth claiming ‘More Pumpkins Are Better.’
The swing's chains are cold in late October
The seat can be wet
She
In her own glory does
Not
Notice the silence. Dreaming of
Dancing at the Met exposing truth to the music of Mendelssohn.
We linger
On the damp cool October morn
She peruses the skyline looking for the
Spot she might run to
As the swing finds a higher plane.
This summer two nudists got wed:
no clothing was worn, not a thread,
no Mendelssohn played -
(I smirked, I'm afraid)
'The organ is out,' Vicar'd said...
charcoal grey horizon~
on the rusty cast iron bench
my old self sits in pensive mood
beside the lake beneath December sky
the wayward wind as it teases my hair
whispers melodies from long ago~
that breath echo in the air
the echo reverberates ~
weaving fragments into vivid voices
and symphonies of yesteryears
my grandma's lullaby
our high-school graduation song
then tender laughters
of children at play fill the air
then comes the echo
of my father's sobbing voice
as he handed me to my groom
on that Saturday afternoon
whilst the organist played
the Wedding March by Mendelssohn
as the echo fades
and turns tenebrous twilight
into enchanting ebony evening
I look around ~
the coffee shop behind me
inviting for another cup
whilst the coffee on my lap
gets colder and colder
yet not as cold as the winter chill
perching inside of me
Here is the season of love and understanding
here lays my heart devoted to the cause
I know that time is only of the essence
God promised love that only He provides;
What can I do... to reach my Father's kingdom
what can I do, to touch His Holy hand of gold
His hand of gold ***his hand of gold
his hand his hand his hand of gold*
Here it is with love and understanding of His passion
here lays my heart devoted to the cause
He is my soul, He makes me whole
consoling love, that through His love abides.
mmmm mmmm
Family Barholdy Mendelssohn
Felix the composer is best known
Creatively gifted from his teens
like or hate him there's no in-between
"Roll Call"
Where are your
soft waves to drown in
when I think of you
are they withheld
and our names
suspended
marked on some
banal roll call
written on a piece of glass
in some cold cave
(LadyLabyrinth /2020)
Mendelssohn - Hebrides Overture (Fingal's Cave) Abbado
https://youtu.be/Jufn41KMU3w
Distant strains of piano music
dance into my ears;
colors of vibrancy waiting
to take away my sorrows.
Somewhere black and white keys,
are laughing to the tickle
of nimble fingers;
that tickle my artistic fancies.
A canvas of Beethoven, Bach
or Mendelssohn fills my imagination
and my brush dips, ever so carefully,
into a palette full of elation.
The ecstasy of the arts,
spiritual adventures abounding.
The eyes, ears and spirit are blessed
to receive such sacred secrets.
The colors of music are black and white;
exploding into a billion etheric pigments.
Each day I am born into a symphony. Tones and chords eloquently choreographed in minor keys of insurgent melancholia. Lumbering contrition escorted by virulent humiliation where no penance can seem to be found. A drum beat of loneliness as bitter as flour, marches an aging reflection that can only scowl and mock. This beat, beautifully and relentlessly recited as a tempo for horns. The onomatopoeia of these horns is my recalcitrant social seclusion, played by the trumpeter that is my refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to me. The horns, escorted as a prisoner by his guard, are the strings. Strings of repetitive failure drawn by the bow that is my incompetence and inadequacy. Each morning, I awaken to Mozart, to Stravinsky, to Mendelssohn. Each embodied by variations of my own melancholia. Each piece written so perfectly as if I were only ever meant to feel this way, that I cannot close my ears. Each days emotions crafted for me with such care, that I believe it may lead to some heightened level of introspection or enlightenment, that I force myself to learn to dance its waltz. And, each day, the piece comes to a close with no edification to be spared to me.
The trees are engaged this year,
fig to myrtle, myrtle to pine, pine
to palm, feeling each other up
in seasonal delirium. Each speaks
a different dialect, yet borders
are open, no passport is needed. Wind,
their license for intercourse, speeds
up the vows--Yes Dear, I Do,
I do, and anyhow we're rooted here
among hibiscus flower girls and
azalea groomsmen before April dazzle
gives way to spurious summer.
Cling, Cling, sing the wind chimes.
Mendelssohn it's not, but there's pep
enough to put spring in your step
The Neapolitan tarantella
is a folk dance very graceful and lively,
it was inspired by someone having been
bitten by a poisonous Taruntula.
It's fast up-beat tempo
induces a frenzied dance in a solo,
or a couple...and as they dance they sweat out
the poison of the spider's bite.
Grandma used to sing this folklorist song,
and I danced with her while loud mandolins
and tambourines accompanied her cheerful singing...
there wasn't an awkward note in her voice.
The Neapolitan tarantella, with its frantic rhythms
and shrill harmonies infused passion in great composers,
and Mendelssohn wrote his symphony...
a song dance was composed by Rossini.
The Neapolitan tarantella grandiosely plays
and everyone stops and listens to its low and high-pitched melody,
and with little hesitation they start to dance...
beneath my veranda, these folks put on a look of festivity.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
He
Said
Words could
Not express
Scottish Hebrides
Outer banks, only music could
Mendelssohns' Violin Concerto in A Minor
Expresses the beauty, wind, barreness, the sand, waves, the castles, the
vegetation all
(Heard that Mendelssohn wrote this while staying on these islands and that he
loved this land.)
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