Dead Calm
Without friction
there is no motion
Without motion
— creation stops
(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)
Abeyance
My pen is searching
for its guitar case
a place to sleep
when the writing’s done
To rest in the dark
between flowing moments
of what might be coming
— and old verses sung
(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)
Nowhere To Hide
The haunting of our memories
never to escape
No continent wide nor ocean deep
— will shield us from their rape
(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)
Falling Into Silence
For years
I’ve had an old man’s body
Today
an old man’s mind
The past
a memory ever haunting
Tomorrow looming
— in decline
(Listening To Paul Simon: May, 2024)
Shadow Dancing
Making everyday life poetic
doggedness abounds
Separating wheat from chaff
— harder than it sounds
(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)
Again New Orleans
Waking up from a dream
inside another dream
inside another dream
inside another …
(Listening to Wynton Marsalis: May, 2024)
Categories:
wynton, writing,
Form: Rhyme
It was Clark Gable, who posed the question,
“Oh, Mr., Faulkner…do you write?”
Indeed, Mr. Gable, Faulkner wrote…
About that postage stamp of native soil
In many books and stories did his typewriter toil
regaling about that mythical place he called Yoknapatawpha County
somewhere in the rolling hills of north Mississippi
he penned a tale about Colonel John Sartoris
of Boon Hogganbeck and Lucius McCaslin
taking a trip to Memphis, Tennessee
in “Boss” Priest’s Wynton Flyer
they were “The Reivers”—footloose and fancy free
Yes, Mr. Gable, Faulkner wrote…
of Quentin Compson—“The Sound and the Fury”
the perils of the Bundren family—“As I Lay Dying”
Vardaman said, “My mother is a fish”
Indeed, Mr. Gable, “Mr. Bill” Faulkner did write
about Emily Grierson, her male admirers in “A Rose for Emily”
the trilogy of the Snopes family, such a literary tapestry
Oh, heavens, Mr. Gable, Mr. Faulkner did write
In every novel, every story, all about his native Mississippi
his works a marvelous contribution to America’s rich literary history
--Allen Baswell
© 02-25-22
Categories:
wynton, appreciation, celebrity, film, literature,
Form: Free verse
Chipmunks, squirrels collecting
bitternut hickory, chirping
against a small owl cruising
low beneath the trees.
Everyone has gone this morning
to school or work. Laundry rolling,
carpets vacuumed, cleaning
in the bathroom on my knees.
I'd like to be Whitman, praising
the pure contralto, Wynton practicing
all day. But like my father dying
I cannot hear what I cannot see.
Locally there's politics, processing
points of view. Eventually coming
to a decision, building or not building
windmills on the sky, bridges in the sea.
Insignificant and mighty happenings
seem the same from my vantage ageing
gratefully, inexorably, planning
how to die in my own damn way.
Categories:
wynton, age, day, father, morning,
Form: Verse