I am longing for my friends and our summer nights filled with music and laughter.
This was written a few years ago and some of us have moved away and some have died. But this will always be my memory of our friendships and our love in a very specail place and time.
sweet water from the well
casts the evenings magic spell
as fiddlers resin up their bows
mandolins court and spark
in the winters early dark
lighting fires that twinkle and glow
its not every night but now
we sing and tell stories how
we lived and dreamed and truly loved
its not every night but when
we gather up to dance again
as the music rises
to the solstice moon above
so grab your partner
and coo and dove
hug your friends and swing your love
cause all we have is the music
and the stars
its not every night but now
we are here and this is how
we celebrate the music
of our lives
Hers were small and china cup delicate
though powerful enough to create our universe.
Her fingers, slim and incandescent, resolving into perfect oval nails.
She scoffed and dismissed those fingers as not enough,
lacking the reach for that next ivory key
reserved for the true concert pianist.
That not good enough created all the sounds of my childhood-
Schubert and Haydn,
tin pan alley,
Lennon and McCartney,
I miss her strong hands, pale and translucent,
I miss my mother’s hands holding my hands.
Festive night filled with music-
the sound of guitar, mandolin
(pa rum pa pa pum)
Red Santa hats,
jingle bells and neon signs
brighten the early winter darkness.
Voices raised in laughter
on the first day of Christmas
my true love
sang to me
and a possum in a persimmon tree.
*** it was a wonderful night at the Black Horse for the Christmas open mic night. I read a couple of poems and we all sang my take on the Twelve Days of the Ozarks and our friends, old and new, made merry.
note: the photos are from 2013 and we miss those who have moved on to warmer climes especially Ally and Pete – love you guys!
Listening to Welsh songs on NPR
on a gray October morning-
a language so foreign
yet melodies familiar
as the coffee in my blue mug
and the call of the red winged blackbird
as it pierces the early dawn air
from yellowing woods across the cove.
In what ancient hills were these songs
first sung? What gray skies
heard first these lilting tunes?
Sailing so far away from their birth and home
to emerge in these steep ridges
and deep shadowy hollows of Ozarks autumn.
I listen to the harmony
of the north wind singing
thru the thicket of yellowing trees.
music yields to an achingly
lyrical melody, in keeping
and consuming. it’s a sound
personified by the slippery
trilling strings represent the
main blazes. flutes and other
winds twinkle, throwing up
horns rise, and swirling
moans and screams in the
sparks. later magic fire
cause of its unusually fast
music, fire was more frantic
comes from the percussion
more sexual. it is the inspiration
with fire’s ambiguous nature
epitomized by what we could be
From an article in the December 2012 Smithsonian Magazine on fire as an element in music and art for a dVerse prompt
Down from the ridges
And up from the hollows,
Musicians, gourd green
And rock solid,
Taught from sinew and bone
Thumping boot heel beat
Rhythm dancing in their song-
Guitar, fiddle and bow
Move from tables to stage
In a rowdy contradance
Of changing partners
With the nights neon muse
Its open mic night
At The Black Horse Saloon
And the music is free.
The family joke is that her children rejected her lullabies
To hear The Battle Hymn of the Republic sung in his off key baritone
That soprano voice, trained and educated,
Her hands knowing and strong across the keys
Music that would draw her children to hear
Her song and the music she created
As if following the pied piper
Singing Tammy and Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
Christmas carols and every hymn in the Baptist songbook
We would sing together
Or sit and listen to her voice
That voice we heard from our watery beginnings
That voice that would bring tears to his eyes
In love and admiration
The sound of the surprise gift of the baby grand
Home in the front bay
Where she would play and all the neighbors
In their homes would listen to the glorious notes
Her hands and fingers and voice produced
That cherished instrument
Sold soon after he died
And then she stopped singing
Her children left bereft in the silence
Knowing finally her music was only for him.