Music

Coffee

The moon, in her wisdom,
hides for the day;
and the sun tumbles
in photonic procession
over hills of tree and rock
to come gently,
unassuming,
in between the curtains.

The cat stretches.

You arise first, usually.

You are the concerto’s
opening notes.

You tell me of the mountains-
the old ones with long and white hair
falling over their shoulders,
guarding the far and wild reaches
of the old country.

You tell me
of the realms of your imagination;
of the paths traveled with companions,
and of those without.

You tell me of the burning light of hope
hidden in the deep night of the soul.

You tell me of faith.
You tell me of mystery.
You tell me of love.

And I see the trades
and skills and crafts
concealed
among the books on your shelf,
and in between your piano fingers.

I see the nameless fears
waiting in the dark.

And I think it is no wrong thing
to take a step back in time,
and say “thou art Rogue”-
feline-footed and shadow-friended,
come to meet me
at the edge of field and the forest,
both of us bringing secrets for trade.

And I see the sun coming in.

I want to hear more.

I want to hear why you think
the violin is the most beautiful sound in the universe.

I want to close my eyes
and see more of the piano fingers at play.

It’s hard to close my eyes around you,
but I will try.

I want to hear more about your paths,
see more of your map,
taste more of your wine;

only because
I’m not sure
anyone’s listened long enough
to hear the song
of the golden threads
that hold you together-
the ones the world tries so hard
to unravel.

So let me check today’s itinerary:

Ah.

“Hunt for rocks.”
“Eat food.”
“Dance in the kitchen.”

But first, breakfast.

Coffee.

Then come and meet me
at the edge of the field and the forest.

artist: https://deviantart.com/rhads

Grace Note

It is a simple thing,
really,

but I have decided
that I miss your voice;
or perhaps
the presence of your voice;
or, I think,
simply the suggestion
of the possibility
that your voice
might be spoken.

I think I miss you,
in fact,
as one might miss a piano
that used to sit
in the living room
near the highest window-

waiting to sing the old songs

as sunlight slips softly
through the glass,

or snow piles silently
upon the pane.

Entanglement

The chords of sunset fall to the earth
and drift ever lightly,
flowing through warmth of a summer
to fade down low-key in the electric descent of the night,

where your touch
is the ghost of the last solstice;
your voice,
the thunder of the preceding equinox,
and the kinetic energy
of angels all fallen to perfection;
where your soul
is a roaring and territorial
song of the solar aurescent…

and your heart-

your heart, seeking in the wilds of humanity
a home that was here, ever-present.

Staring down the slowly-racing horizon,
breathing in the dusklight,
lungs filling deep with the dust of dead suns,

one silent prayer,
one lone evocation into the dark defiant, my dear:

may, one day,
you deny your god
before the crowing of the next sunrise

by daring to look up as you once did-
to watch the stars.

falling_star_by_snatti89-dc392e7
artist: https://deviantart.com/snatti89

Waves III

Listen, now;
this is where the story gets really good.

Once conscripts
in the fleet of fate violent,
now only inheritors
of the mark of mystery;

once free to stay bound in irons
and to sleep in chains;
now there are temple paths
and distant cities of gold come a-calling.

So who now will rise up and strike forth
into the heart of dawn?

If you will it so,
then you must journey through the soul of night.

For footprints, once trailing a path through the wreckage
lead to a bottle, open on the ground-

(as lightning let down its hair,
shunting
and stabbing

thunderblack

over the reaches to the mountains beyond,
in between the scent of salt and the sound of the shore,
into the drunken sinking sundown-

sliding off naked stars
into the blankets of ocean waves
where sand slips into surf)

-a bottle lay open on the ground,

where scraps of memory tumbled out,
where scraps of sacred words
combusted into flames of feast and famine,

where scraps of scripts of saints
of time, signature, and distance
immolated under the grace notes of the open heart,

and a full measure of passions improvised
fancied itself the fire, and danced in the sparkening
under the veil of the night;

where, no longer bound by letters of the heartless bedestined,

they both hauled up and raised the black.

For love is a weightless anchor of light,
and an open rebellion against the agents of death.

Behold the horizon laughing in the sinking sundown.
Behold the gift of the wind.
Behold the map and the music.
Behold the sound of laughter unfurled in the kiss.

If you find a bottle like that, one day
(and I hope you do),
hold it to your ear.

You may hear the sound of magic.

For in the space
where hands like theirs meet,
the storm itself envies.

Capitola Beach - Jean Guillet
artist: https://chateaugrief.deviantart.com

You Could Go Home

Or,

you could take a walk
into the oncoming twilight of an early June,

just before the magic hour saunters in,

when liquid light-gold flows in slow-motion
through green leaves,
in between dark branches.

Maybe someone is kindling common air to sacred flame
through the mouth of a trumpet.

Maybe the lilacs are sprayed up
against the brick walls.

Perhaps a lover
waits for you.

Maybe dance.
Maybe death.

Perhaps fame.
Perhaps fortune.

Or,

perhaps it’s just an early June,
and maybe

just the magic hour.

After the Rain
artist: https://snatti89.deviantart.com

reference

just so you know,

when i use the word
“beautiful”,
i hate that i have to.

i really do.

i hate that everything else
is a just synonym for it;

i hate that it’s been cheapened,

because when i use it
(when i attach it to something),

it means spark
it means ray of light
it means dance

it means thunder
it means chord
it means symphony

it means snow
it means field
it means wave

it means night sky
it means breath
it means brushstroke

it means eye
it means mountain
it means tree

it means you;

it means what it used to.

Directions:

(found among my grandmother’s letters)

So dance, then-

on the sidewalk,
in the backyard,

under the naked lights,
in the depths of the dark,

awkwardly, utterly, ridiculously,
or as smooth as you are

(or think you are);

after work,
on vacation,
on pavement,
on grass,
on sand,
on water, if you’re that good;

dance alone,
or close with another;

whether free, flowing in the air,
or guilty and perhaps weighed-down…

dance with no alibi.

There are little things
in the rooms of wood and brass and string and spotlight,
in between the rock and the roll and the jazz and the jive;
little things with no price-tag
that hammer together the house of the soul.

Did you know
you’ll most likely attend an equal number
of weddings and funerals?

Yes, you may have to tidy up afterwards…
but dance in the kitchen, for heaven’s sake!
What exactly do you think you are?

Listen.

To dance,
darling-

this does not require wings.

for when you ask

well
because

it’s so easy,
so very, very easy to love you

alright, then
let me tell you some little stories–
and they’re not true, nor false;

but they are real.

some days you sound like a metal guitar,
some days, like a jazz piano,
some days, like the wind in the trees
or the rain on dry dirt

we walk on the sidewalk in the days of autumn
and i am the sidewalk
and you are the leaves
(take away the amber, umber, ochre, crimson, gold
and it’s just a sidewalk, you see)

sometimes you feel like snow on a barn’s roof
sometimes, like the light of the sun in a summer field

and because
lightning
is what makes the sound of
thunder

i hold you
and you fit
we sprawl down on the bed
and you fit
you gather my flame into yours
and i fit
we dance in the kitchen
and you fit
perfectly

because there was a star that died
so long ago,
giving up the atoms of its heart
that made you
and me,
and sidewalks,
and leaves,
and guitars, and pianos,
and trees and rain and dirt and barns and fields

because you are not the pledge,
nor the turn;
you are the prestige

(i watch so closely but i’ll never figure it out;
and since magic is built
into the fabric of the universe anyway,
why would i want to?)

because your defiance flashes
always with reason
(and i like the way you swear)

because you chose to learn from the earth
and all the wild and growing things

because you didn’t grow up;
all you did was get a bit older

because you look up at the stars
the same way i look up at the stars

because you think out loud

oh, yes,
and because the curve of your back
is the spine of an old book
and your mind
is the scent of the pages
and your soul is the protagonist
and your heart is the words

and i can’t get paid to keep writing this,

(not yet)

so i’ll have to end it here,
even though
(just so you know)

i could go on
forever