A pegged round point gleams a dream as a passerby
pauses briefly at some display of hearts. Creams alot
enchanted in velvety reds filled with sweet treats that
address the same in my deepest fantasies. Employed by
the Creatures that slither their way, shading their point in
passing. Then a heavenly-sent gifts a genteel speaker
drifts a spun floater albeit a dove's solitaire feather.
Angelic hands reach down to gather it up in chorale
chants achieved its disciplined course. In brevity
breathes deeply, exalting with the soothing blessed
Suite, performed by Johann Bach. Toccata, Adagio, and
Fugue in C Major, with cultured ivory chords and refined
pedals as the fantasy seized a day.
Epochal courses a tamed countryside,
Spectacle sparkles glowing trees and boughs,
Pedestal weights and measures counter slide,
Sensible enshrine flexible reigned bows.
A sentinel taps chords and ivories,
The typical lose blues and notes the muse,
The miracle resonates mute carries,
A mythical being awaits its dues.
As Bach spirited his classical piece,
Some brought heart and soul, yet their ears came first,
Has God Heaven sent his blesseth song sheets,
Glass box reveals harmonic sharp verses.
Gentle-deft barters simply and ables,
Treble Clef and all the rest, well arranged,
Level weft swaps light, keyboard, and pedals,
Special, left Bach's masterful skills remained,
*Image of Harper Lee View by SMaga.
To Kill a Mocking Bird
A feared world like a Japanese *macaque,
Terror strikes external, flys the war hawk,
Ricochets Toccata & Fugue by Bach,
As the free world furthers debate and talk,
Astir and toss like in a Chinese wok,
NATO military supplies ad-hoc,
"People protect what they love," -- Cousteau, Jacques,
Ukraine warns hope will run out on the clock,
USA and Russia, the new, **Iraq.
*macaque pronounced; ma-kek, or, ma-kok--I used the latter
**Iraq pronounced; I-rek, or, E-rok--I used the latter
2022 October 06
Word Toccata in A Major
Jaundiced ’53 Cadillac in my sweetheart’s carport.
She leaves the hole keys inside the empty fish bowl.
Hidden in her trunk are a set of golf clubs with knife wounds;
Her secret boyfriend with the purple tattoo of a face scar,
Recites from shotgunned memory the Love Song by Mister Eliot,
As my sweetheart bathes upstairs with a fleeting candle and Camay,
Pure white, and scented as eucalyptus breaths in the cooing moonlight.
Fevered ’49 Commodore parked luridly in her back alley.
He retrieves the hole keys from within the empty fish bowl.
Hidden in her trunk are a brace of golf balls with black bruises;
Soon he will trudge through fairway greens in pursuit of exotic birds,
Reciting Prufrock with two young robins pecking seed before him.
Upstairs now, he relaxes in my sweetheart’s bath with Camay and a gun,
Pure crimson, and scented as medusae bulbs in the screaming moonlight.
Johann Sebastian Bach
Found that bread gave him creative spark
He would eat a whole ciabatta
Then knock off a fugue and toccata
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Cathedral
I walk in the cathedral, its vast space
is quiet is like the immense silence
of a deep and gentle snow storm.
light through the stain glass windows glorifies
the sense of peace.
In the distance a book is dropped
the flat echo sounds far and small.
I hear the shuffle of people
in another nave of this place,
they talk one to another
In booming sibilants that make no sense, but echo.
An old woman prays in the pew near me,
We are so very far from the chancellery,
She flashes me looks of scorn.
I feel she knows I don't pray
and has seen I did not genuflect.
High up amongst polished rose wood
I hear slight noises echo as a man
moves papers that he carries.
Very softly, a low sweet sound fills this place
I feel joy and I am full of tears.
The sound stops. silence rings like crystal,
to be fractured by the opening thunder
of the Bach D minor toccata and fugue,
which fills this place and me with sound.
Then I am crying and desolate.
because it is quiet again.
If a place like this can exist does it mean that there is a god.
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