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Sestina
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THE BARBERSHOP QUARTET
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
A Capella joviality, with torquing wrists, snapping fingers.
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Dapper in their pinstripe suits, hats — Delmonico brand.
Sweet Adeline, drawn out. My Adeline — peaks, lingers.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
Choreography matchless with their sugar-cane wands.
One by one they tap and score with lighthearted zingers.
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Bass, lead, baritone and tenor glitz altogether stand,
Impressing the country stage — these polished singers.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
Differences overlooked, blend of ringing chords command.
Friendship in angelic voice, grooming of youthful wingers.*
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Brothers in harmony, gathering precious social sand.
Through time, the dusty chair spins and memories linger.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand —
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
4/25/2018
*wingers - I am using to describe the new set of kids who
practice “wing it”
Sweet Adeline written by Richard Gerard
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Sestina
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He looked out at the snow and ice,
As a cold wind whistled winter
Through the door, bringing hope
Of making a real-life snowman,
A special friend for a lonely boy,
At least in his world it was so.
He ran out of his room and leapt so
High, sliding down the banister as if on ice.
Then, putting on his boots and scarf, the boy
Flew out of the door into the depths of winter,
Laughing, scooping, sculpting his snowman,
His pal, his accomplice, his hope.
He rolled about without a hope
Of caring for the cold, and so,
Wrapping his scarf around his snowman,
He skidded about on sparkling ice
Losing his boots to the big mad winter…
And there was no happier boy.
A solitary but cheerful boy,
No others there to spoil the hope
Of finding secret delights in winter
That only he believed in so,
Secrets long buried in solid ice,
Yet found inside a snowman.
He danced and chatted to his snowman
And he in turn smiled down at the boy,
Complete with carrot nose and eyes of ice
It filled his heart with warmth and hope,
Showed him the meaning of life so
Full of love, in coldest cruellest winter.
Back inside he looks on winter
Watching his own precious snowman,
And though the fire roars and sweets so
Tempting fill the senses of the boy,
Nothing gives him more joy-filled hope
Than gazing on two lumps of ice.
The darkest winter, that lies inside a boy,
Is brightened by a snowman, a light of hope
That friendship gives so, through frozen ice.
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Sestina
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Rare and precious is my friend so loyal.
He is forever faithful, always true.
In this life, I owe him pure devotion.
He is to me, an anchor strong and sure.
All of these and more describe how loving
And imperishable, this friendship eternal.
A lifetime has forged our bond eternal
Into a friendship that is beautifully loyal.
Naturally seamless and loving
Undeniably fortified and true.
No force shall end it, this I’m sure
As we live committed and devoted.
This is a priceless, rare and devoted
Love that lifts where angels roam eternal.
It was willed in Heaven, this I’m sure
Born of God’s character, so loyal!
No doubting, in all sincerity; it’s true
Secured by a heavenly blessing of loving.
Our Lord has demonstrated loving
And what is it to be devoted.
What is false and what is true,
The temporal and the eternal.
It’s a decision to be loyal
And requires Jesus, this I know for sure.
Why I have this treasure, I’m not sure
But I know, essential to joy is loving
As well as learning how to be loyal
And fighting ever more to be devoted.
The rewards are for us, eternal
And the fruits, are full, ripe and true.
This testimony given you is true
And the evidence of us is sure.
As heaven lives, our friendship is eternal
As Jesus taught, our lives are meant for loving
And with ease, we can commit to be devoted
That naturally leads us to be loyal.
True, this gift of supreme loving
Sure to inspire life-long devotion
Eternal the gift, is a friendship this loyal.
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Sestina
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It takes two to make a tear
It’s Christmastime so no more killing now!
Let’s get together, sing some carols here.
In no man’s land, we’re brothers for today.
A merry Christmas, season’s greetings, mate.
Und frohliche weihnachten to you, my friend.
Oh, stille nacht, holy night: a lovely sound.
I’ll trade some brandy for your schnapps, old mate.
Und bratwurst for your bully beef, my friend!
It’s nice to know you, as we’re friendly now.
I wish that you could meet my folk today.
Your German language is a pleasant sound.
Und Englisch klingt gut, now it’s spoken here.
It’s good when laughter is the only sound!
A cigarette? Und zigarette, my friend?
It’s good to smoke it either way right now.
I’d take you home to meet my folks, so here’s
A photo of my wife and children, mate.
I wish that I could be with them today.
We’ll have a game of football, Max, my mate:
A Christmas friendly five a side today!
Ah, football das ist gut, my friend.
And only friendly rivalry from now.
With Cheers, instead of cries: such happy sounds!
And No Man’s land’s a perfect pitch right here.
I wish I had some gifts to offer here.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give for hankies now.
Let’s sing again; it’s such a jolly sound.
It’s snowing; friendship keeps us warm today.
You’re welcome to mein mantel, Bob, my friend.
I never thought I’d wear your coat, Max, mate.
The world is now a better place today.
I think we’ll stay gute freunde, do you, my friend?
Of course we’ll be good pals from now on, mate.
I couldn’t shoot at German soldiers now.
We’ll tell them straight that we’re all friendly here -
And no more fighting in the world sounds sound!
They say we’re enemies again, old mate.
Ja, weihnachten war gestern, Bob my friend.
Forgive me if I take your life today…
*In 1914, the German and English troops had a ceasefire at Christmas.
I think my German words are correct, but apologies if not!
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Sestina
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Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
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Sestina
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Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
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Sestina
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Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
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Sestina
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Only 14 and eager to find love, she sneaks out at four in the morning
Persuading her best friend to come along – meet someone new
Hence at the nearest park an unfamiliar friendship is formed
Sketchy as it may sound, Anthony grew to be an addition
to the bad influences that were to come – coming of age
But what did she know, she just wanted to fall in love
Only 15 and again she met someone knew, who showed her love
Nights spent away from home, with David by her side in the morning
Snorting candy in his restroom – new experiences come with age
Pupils dilated, shaky hands bringing them closer every other weekend anew
She found what she wanted, the paraphernalia was an addition
But just as simple as love was found, deceptions were bound to form
Only 16 and life was a pool of mixed emotions treacherously forming
Then Alberto came to show her that a broken heart still has hope for love
But she could not grasp the fact, so he became merely an addition
to the list of emotions she could no longer face each morning
Suicidal in thought and action but this was nothing new
For her arm wore a scar of each fear that surfaced as she aged
Only 17 and her mentality mistakenly surpassed her age
She contented with denying love as soon as it started to take form
For the season had passed and her heart rejected anything new
that entered in the form of affection – disdaining love
Instead she found emotion in other harm that morning
Being careless and carefree came easy when candy was an addition
Only 18 and her priorities were set aside as addiction from the addition
took over and washed away the intellect accumulated at her age
As she discovered how to assimilate in a declining community some morning
For the ignorance that surrounds her finally came to show form
She was crowned Prom Queen one night but still denied to feel the love
Not accepting the popularity that deemed from being someone new
Only 19 and her life takes a route that will reckon something new
Responsibilities wave over as her past becomes the addition
to the addictions that engulf her, for they fill the void of love
A void so profoundly misguided in context to her age
One that could never be accepted thus failing to form
Reminding herself of what derived from that morning
Untitled is the new chapter that will come a certain age,
as the addition of what has been expected for so long forms –
the love that she needs in order to be at peace and not wake in the morning.
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