Listen to Sharing The Thrill On SoundCloud
The Poems you will hear on Sharing the Thrill,
in performance order:
Max Roach
A story that can’t be told,
your story.
There will never be a way
the world can explain
the man, the imagination, the music.
Genius was your playground.
We all have our versions.
You kept me going for years
with a nod, a laugh,
a lunch in the kitchen.
“Put words to this music,” you’d say.
My brother and I would
come back with words.
It was serious,
it was critical,
and you would be delighted
as we wrote our songs
on your strength.
From the swamp land of North Carolina
to the symphony of a Brooklyn street.
Carnegie Hall joined the applause from around the globe.
You showed us the grace of Art.
So many people, so many stories,
so many versions.
And each version telling of a world
built stronger by the man
Max Roach.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Artist
There is a rumor
we are a sick
and disgusting lot
Started before we
knew of it.
Saying we jump
from windows,
drink an unkind
death.
That we care
for ourselves only.
Let us then meet
by a stream
using the water
for our thoughts
throw a party
of sickness laughing at our
tragic fortune.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Billie Holiday
(a lullaby)
Sometimes when nature is quiet
and the moon shines just where you are,
I can hear you singing the spirit world to rest.
I remember as a child, your voice would
wrap me in cotton
as you felt the blows for all of us.
Born into a country that tried to
make your voice illegal,
poise and elegance was your response.
And tonight, like so many
nights, as I wait for morning,
I know I can count on
the voice of Billie Holiday.
________________________________________________________________________________________
For Crying Out Loud
A gift,
listen,
a lost art,
crying out loud.
Very few of us do,
and we stop as soon as we can.
Except if there’s a drum, a horn or strings,
musical instruments that cry out
and can make us cry out.
A gift from when we were human.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Sin Takes a Bow
Make Believe
made up Sin,
and Sin took it from there.
Entered our lives with a racket.
Created a racket,
the life and death racket.
Took our five senses for a ride.
Made yes and no common events.
Made loving you a shadow.
Sin is at home in all of us,
and Sin will take our breath away.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
The Chokehold
At birth it seems natural,
a choking feeling in our throats.
In death again so familiar.
But in between time
they’ve worked in the chokehold.
The chokehold waits,
wearing a uniform.
The death rattle hiding behind a gun.
They have many ways of controlling our crowd—
the gag order is always with us,
in school, at home,
on the bus, in
our heads.
But if we step up,
stand out, falter or forget,
the choke hold is there.
But don’t despair
as he closes in.
Watch your soul surround
this beast,
this uniform with a gun.
His crowd control,
his gag order.
And watch him choke
as he hangs on to the devil’s tail.
__________________________________________________________________________________
No Cure
It's true I do like my gin
but not sloppy
slow and easy
the way the body goes
the way the mind makes things
funny or sad depending on the
night before
depending on what you've said
thinking of leaves all brown now
the rain making no noise
holding the bottle to my ear
I think of the good times
Only the good times
________________________________________________________________________________
Roulette
Luck
good or bad
Moves inside her
shaking at the table
wheeling on the floor
Her movements
dancing
Her voice off key
Her whole life
now a permanent
matter
Dazzling hidden
forgiven
________________________________________________________________________________
I Overheard My Mother's Death
I overheard my mother's death
Her side of the story finally told
Defiant face slapping monsters coming at her
and she holding her ground
not one to compromise
not now not ever really
But always generous
Even now letting me listen in
to hear the end of her life
And the beginning of so many
memories together
___________________________________________________________________________________
Family Photo
(for Tessa Kelly)
The Ocean was the sound of my childhood.
The changing motion of beauty and strength
were my view.
Diving into a wave,
making it up fast for air and then
riding another wave all the way back to shore.
Thirty-five years and I never did find
anything to match it,
But in memory, I can count on the Ocean,
that little girl, and flying in nature’s hands.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Steel on Steel
There is a sound when your voice grabs my voice,
when your words twist inside my body,
when my words scream to escape.
On the other side of sound, there is motion.
When your body slides into my body
and my body can outsmart you.
Can throw you into space with one unexpected turn
and then enjoy the wreckage we created.
But then your voice returns
like screeching steel.
And I remember as a child,
I would wait on the railroad tracks
until the conductor panicked.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Birth Control
The doctors came and took it out
with the knife with the spoon
scraping mouthfuls of beautiful
purple and blue blood
it stained my dress
it seared my skin
something made of me
something that has no kin
Where you trying to say something?
Your life that made such
a sucking noise when leaving
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Razors
They sewed it up again
little needles coming in
and out of my arm.
It is no longer rage
but a shy fear of myself
Looking at the product
I see fading colors
Rubbing my hand against
it, there are still signs
of death.
How can I calm your
trembling lips
the blood felt so warm
running down my limb.
________________________________________________________________________________
Round 2
Because we are alive in this life,
because we feel and with a head full of nonsense,
we love.
Afraid of our fear,
of even our own wicked dreams.
Your shape turning from me.
Terror,
the cold insides of the moon.
Your words frail,
your speech in sadness,
always turning,
always away.
Because you thought,
and thinking now
you return.
Hoping again,
wanting a little less,
hoping for safety.
Forgetting and not forgetting.
Because of lasting things,
musical notes that make you sit and cry.
Weeping, praying with laughter,
that these things always remain.
____________________________________________________________________________
My Bodyguard
Losing balance
losing my balance
across the floor
or against a wall.
My body follows along
always finding a structure to hit, slide or crawl across.
Something is tipping the balance.
The brain a likely culprit.
Or maybe gravity itself having a little fun with me.
Maybe life is trying to kick itself free from me.
But before a decision is made, a diagnosis, a doctor
or a way to nail down my balance is decided,
maybe a new event will take place.
My balance and I will join together as
we float, glide, and prepare for our body to
take us dancing, one step after another.
__________________________________________________________________________
Dancing Around The Fire
It is wet outside
Even here I can tell that much
There are other bodies
Sitting, crying, smoking
mostly women
No one talks
A form with a face moves toward me
"Back again?
You can have a cigarette now
First take these
They will help you relax
Don't be afraid."
Afraid?
Afraid is something that died with my mother
Taste the pills and wait for morning
Faces that are mine mill in the hall
The Arab with the sheet
The old woman rocking and singing my thoughts
They move us into a large room with many lights
We are in a circle
They are throwing a colorfull ball to each other
When someone catches it they shout their name
The ball hits me
a chance to be heard
They will listen to my story
I will speak for all of us
My voice rises to the air
"Spare change!"
I hear laughter
Someone is moving me away
I see my face on the ceiling
A color with a light
A light that is sound
The air drags against my voice
I speak
"1, 2 buckle your shoe
3, 4 dead on the floor
5, 6 beaten with sticks
7, 8 you came too late."
"Take these do you know where you are?"
Eyes focus
A white snake
Look above the sky
I could hear my voice in another room
screaming
____________________________________________________________________________
If Words Could Talk
A fistful of words
going down your throat.
At first surprising,
then frightful, painful.
Words you didn’t want to say.
Words now tearing, popping, ripping organs.
Your own words attacking you,
until I can.
_________________________________________________________________________
Mental Hospital Blues
Night comes slowly to this place.
Cold and tired, we almost forget.
They give us pills and bad dreams.
Our faces ugly with the memory
of each other.
Doctors float in and out,
smiling, waving, keeping
a cool hard distance.
Volunteers come hoping to
find something for their term
papers.
There is a glass window
for the nurses to see out of
and looking around friends,
I must say we put on a good
show.
But there is a pain here,
a slow dull pain in the middle of things.
And if we are not careful
it will somehow destroy us.
___________________________________________________________________________
Enter Into the Earth
Enter into to the earth
again
The middle of rhythm
A pounding sound
in the back of life
It keeps me alive
Almost a feeling
A whisper of memory
A thought somewhere
in a mind that
has no substance
A rite of fancy
a clinging right
To exist beyond hope
___________________________________________________________________________
Refrain
You once said,
“Come, come now while you
still have time.”
And when I got there I heard
the songs of the mad.
I must say I missed the lyrics,
but the rhythm, the rhythm,
stayed with me.
________________________________________________________________________________
Coma Rising (for Art Pepper)
Anger in motion
in public places
in mid-air
posing with sick habits
fighting like a disease
twisting shaking desire
in every note
An alto saxophone
faster than any words
any thoughts except Art Peppers
A knife thrower with a face
full of glee
____________________________________________________________________________________
David Meltzer
Rumplestiltskin has a secret
and so does David Meltzer.
David weaves Secrets and Gold,
Music and Poetry.
The timekeeper,
he knows the rhythm of beating hearts.
The beginning of Music.
The beginning of Poetry.
His life is a sanctuary for both,
as he writes the poems music can celebrate.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Making You Wait
I could just shoot you
watch you stagger across the room
My favorite actor even in dying
posing, dropping to the ground
gasping, bewildered, unable to enjoy
your final moments
my gift to you, your death
somehow it would turn into
a misunderstanding
so instead I'll continue
to call in the night
and read you my poems
____________________________________________________________________________________
The Cookie Crumbles
Fragrant, beautiful,
with secret ingredients
that make her a wonder.
But then there’s a wearing away,
not like a precious stone
that time embraces,
but with rodents carrying her away on their backs. At times whole families
taking slivers, chunks, slices,
or a crumb for the rogue insect.
The cookie crumbles
as the strangers feast.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Sue’s Son
(for Gabriel Wildwood Trupin)
Out of the house and down the stairs,
where did he go?
With a dance step,
he held our lives in his movements.
Gravity was a game to him
and he created a light,
a pathway for us to follow.
A dance to caress us.
From the boy that didn’t believe in goodbye.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Picture
If when walking the beach
with my dog
I notice the gentleness of the sea
and how the waves always come back
If I see him rolling in the wet sand
I laugh, knowing this is a picture
A thing that will stay with me
a long time.
________________________________________________________________________________________
To John
Thinking to your time
by yourself or with me,
little freckled face boy with
too many diseases.
We used to play “Who could catch the most flies in the kitchen,”
Then the most fun digging a hole to China.
Only to be covered up by the dog.
That didn’t stop us.
We’d ride our bikes but got tired
and came home.
Watching you on the baseball field and
saying to people passing,
“See that pitcher. You mess with me
he’ll mess with you.”
Then later getting high together,
everything funny, laughing all the way down.
Once I gave you my last gram of hash,
a most gallant act.
Me showing you my first poems
all nervous.
You smiled and laughed, hitting
my arm.
I knew that was good, so I kept writing.
You moved away with lots of friends,
and I felt out of place.
We don’t write letters much,
but I hear you’re doing good betting on the horses.
I miss you sometimes,
and just want to say,
I loved having a big brother
that could play as good as you.
________________________________________________________________________________
Dates
( for Milt Jackson)
Back from Japan
around the table
a tape of your sound
moving listening
eating chicken legs
hoping to remember
that the man
I met
is the man I want
to meet
in a song
we can play
__________________________________________________________________________________
Billy Higgins
Billy Higgins
and it’s all true.
At 12, with drumsticks in
his back pocket, he started
us on an adventure,
a spiral quest with music as our guide.
Billy Higgins
it’s all true.
The majestic smile,
the caress that took us
around the world.
His music timeless,
his life counted out in hours.
In a nightclub working,
in the rehearsal studio,
laughing, coming up with
kaleidoscope ideas,
then riding the reins
taking each one of us out
and then back in again.
The most recorded drummer
in American history,
at times, sleeping on
the streets of Manhattan,
he would take a rope
and tie his drums
around his waist, for
warmth, for safety, for
music, and I
thought of a cross and
we were his cross
and he carried us so far
and his music continues
to carry us and all generations.
___________________________________________________________________________________
The Big Band
Two trumpets fell in love
and their music showed it.
Not a wasted note.
They joined a big band
and were proud to be
such beautiful instruments.
Playing or waiting their turn,
they were never out of reach.
And together they made
the heavens dance.
__________________________________________________________________________________
You Know It’s For You
The days came and took you away.
But I remember making our bed (army style),
hoping you would notice clean sheets.
The little things that came.
A book, a picture, thinking it’s ours,
every second of it.
Many times the whole room
was filled with pain.
I wanted my fingers on your lips,
but turning away, I couldn’t
say anything.
All the things that weren’t said came back.
Our plan of the small house
at the beach.
Baking bread, giving it to you still warm.
It’s been many months.
Your face fades into others,
and there is a son somewhere
who will never get born.
_______________________________________________________________________________
The Lap of Luxury
(After Denise Levertov’s poem, “The Secret”)
The lap of luxury has changed over the years.
Right now a park bench,
a seat on the bus,
a beach with a few dogs.
These are the luxuries I notice most.
A few years ago,
knowing the time,
knowing the day,
fitting into imaginary places were a great luxury.
But the luxury that hasn’t changed
is the same as the need that hasn’t changed.
The book on my lap
finding a poem,
even a few good lines,
and sharing the thrill, the mystery,
the secret
with a new poet.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Poetry Goes to the Dance
Everyone was waiting,
the piano and horns were ready,
the drums turned toward the door.
The music starts,
In walks poetry
and the words dance.
____________________________________________________________________________________
The Poems you will hear on Sharing the Thrill,
in performance order:
Max Roach
A story that can’t be told,
your story.
There will never be a way
the world can explain
the man, the imagination, the music.
Genius was your playground.
We all have our versions.
You kept me going for years
with a nod, a laugh,
a lunch in the kitchen.
“Put words to this music,” you’d say.
My brother and I would
come back with words.
It was serious,
it was critical,
and you would be delighted
as we wrote our songs
on your strength.
From the swamp land of North Carolina
to the symphony of a Brooklyn street.
Carnegie Hall joined the applause from around the globe.
You showed us the grace of Art.
So many people, so many stories,
so many versions.
And each version telling of a world
built stronger by the man
Max Roach.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Artist
There is a rumor
we are a sick
and disgusting lot
Started before we
knew of it.
Saying we jump
from windows,
drink an unkind
death.
That we care
for ourselves only.
Let us then meet
by a stream
using the water
for our thoughts
throw a party
of sickness laughing at our
tragic fortune.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Billie Holiday
(a lullaby)
Sometimes when nature is quiet
and the moon shines just where you are,
I can hear you singing the spirit world to rest.
I remember as a child, your voice would
wrap me in cotton
as you felt the blows for all of us.
Born into a country that tried to
make your voice illegal,
poise and elegance was your response.
And tonight, like so many
nights, as I wait for morning,
I know I can count on
the voice of Billie Holiday.
________________________________________________________________________________________
For Crying Out Loud
A gift,
listen,
a lost art,
crying out loud.
Very few of us do,
and we stop as soon as we can.
Except if there’s a drum, a horn or strings,
musical instruments that cry out
and can make us cry out.
A gift from when we were human.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Sin Takes a Bow
Make Believe
made up Sin,
and Sin took it from there.
Entered our lives with a racket.
Created a racket,
the life and death racket.
Took our five senses for a ride.
Made yes and no common events.
Made loving you a shadow.
Sin is at home in all of us,
and Sin will take our breath away.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
The Chokehold
At birth it seems natural,
a choking feeling in our throats.
In death again so familiar.
But in between time
they’ve worked in the chokehold.
The chokehold waits,
wearing a uniform.
The death rattle hiding behind a gun.
They have many ways of controlling our crowd—
the gag order is always with us,
in school, at home,
on the bus, in
our heads.
But if we step up,
stand out, falter or forget,
the choke hold is there.
But don’t despair
as he closes in.
Watch your soul surround
this beast,
this uniform with a gun.
His crowd control,
his gag order.
And watch him choke
as he hangs on to the devil’s tail.
__________________________________________________________________________________
No Cure
It's true I do like my gin
but not sloppy
slow and easy
the way the body goes
the way the mind makes things
funny or sad depending on the
night before
depending on what you've said
thinking of leaves all brown now
the rain making no noise
holding the bottle to my ear
I think of the good times
Only the good times
________________________________________________________________________________
Roulette
Luck
good or bad
Moves inside her
shaking at the table
wheeling on the floor
Her movements
dancing
Her voice off key
Her whole life
now a permanent
matter
Dazzling hidden
forgiven
________________________________________________________________________________
I Overheard My Mother's Death
I overheard my mother's death
Her side of the story finally told
Defiant face slapping monsters coming at her
and she holding her ground
not one to compromise
not now not ever really
But always generous
Even now letting me listen in
to hear the end of her life
And the beginning of so many
memories together
___________________________________________________________________________________
Family Photo
(for Tessa Kelly)
The Ocean was the sound of my childhood.
The changing motion of beauty and strength
were my view.
Diving into a wave,
making it up fast for air and then
riding another wave all the way back to shore.
Thirty-five years and I never did find
anything to match it,
But in memory, I can count on the Ocean,
that little girl, and flying in nature’s hands.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Steel on Steel
There is a sound when your voice grabs my voice,
when your words twist inside my body,
when my words scream to escape.
On the other side of sound, there is motion.
When your body slides into my body
and my body can outsmart you.
Can throw you into space with one unexpected turn
and then enjoy the wreckage we created.
But then your voice returns
like screeching steel.
And I remember as a child,
I would wait on the railroad tracks
until the conductor panicked.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Birth Control
The doctors came and took it out
with the knife with the spoon
scraping mouthfuls of beautiful
purple and blue blood
it stained my dress
it seared my skin
something made of me
something that has no kin
Where you trying to say something?
Your life that made such
a sucking noise when leaving
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Razors
They sewed it up again
little needles coming in
and out of my arm.
It is no longer rage
but a shy fear of myself
Looking at the product
I see fading colors
Rubbing my hand against
it, there are still signs
of death.
How can I calm your
trembling lips
the blood felt so warm
running down my limb.
________________________________________________________________________________
Round 2
Because we are alive in this life,
because we feel and with a head full of nonsense,
we love.
Afraid of our fear,
of even our own wicked dreams.
Your shape turning from me.
Terror,
the cold insides of the moon.
Your words frail,
your speech in sadness,
always turning,
always away.
Because you thought,
and thinking now
you return.
Hoping again,
wanting a little less,
hoping for safety.
Forgetting and not forgetting.
Because of lasting things,
musical notes that make you sit and cry.
Weeping, praying with laughter,
that these things always remain.
____________________________________________________________________________
My Bodyguard
Losing balance
losing my balance
across the floor
or against a wall.
My body follows along
always finding a structure to hit, slide or crawl across.
Something is tipping the balance.
The brain a likely culprit.
Or maybe gravity itself having a little fun with me.
Maybe life is trying to kick itself free from me.
But before a decision is made, a diagnosis, a doctor
or a way to nail down my balance is decided,
maybe a new event will take place.
My balance and I will join together as
we float, glide, and prepare for our body to
take us dancing, one step after another.
__________________________________________________________________________
Dancing Around The Fire
It is wet outside
Even here I can tell that much
There are other bodies
Sitting, crying, smoking
mostly women
No one talks
A form with a face moves toward me
"Back again?
You can have a cigarette now
First take these
They will help you relax
Don't be afraid."
Afraid?
Afraid is something that died with my mother
Taste the pills and wait for morning
Faces that are mine mill in the hall
The Arab with the sheet
The old woman rocking and singing my thoughts
They move us into a large room with many lights
We are in a circle
They are throwing a colorfull ball to each other
When someone catches it they shout their name
The ball hits me
a chance to be heard
They will listen to my story
I will speak for all of us
My voice rises to the air
"Spare change!"
I hear laughter
Someone is moving me away
I see my face on the ceiling
A color with a light
A light that is sound
The air drags against my voice
I speak
"1, 2 buckle your shoe
3, 4 dead on the floor
5, 6 beaten with sticks
7, 8 you came too late."
"Take these do you know where you are?"
Eyes focus
A white snake
Look above the sky
I could hear my voice in another room
screaming
____________________________________________________________________________
If Words Could Talk
A fistful of words
going down your throat.
At first surprising,
then frightful, painful.
Words you didn’t want to say.
Words now tearing, popping, ripping organs.
Your own words attacking you,
until I can.
_________________________________________________________________________
Mental Hospital Blues
Night comes slowly to this place.
Cold and tired, we almost forget.
They give us pills and bad dreams.
Our faces ugly with the memory
of each other.
Doctors float in and out,
smiling, waving, keeping
a cool hard distance.
Volunteers come hoping to
find something for their term
papers.
There is a glass window
for the nurses to see out of
and looking around friends,
I must say we put on a good
show.
But there is a pain here,
a slow dull pain in the middle of things.
And if we are not careful
it will somehow destroy us.
___________________________________________________________________________
Enter Into the Earth
Enter into to the earth
again
The middle of rhythm
A pounding sound
in the back of life
It keeps me alive
Almost a feeling
A whisper of memory
A thought somewhere
in a mind that
has no substance
A rite of fancy
a clinging right
To exist beyond hope
___________________________________________________________________________
Refrain
You once said,
“Come, come now while you
still have time.”
And when I got there I heard
the songs of the mad.
I must say I missed the lyrics,
but the rhythm, the rhythm,
stayed with me.
________________________________________________________________________________
Coma Rising (for Art Pepper)
Anger in motion
in public places
in mid-air
posing with sick habits
fighting like a disease
twisting shaking desire
in every note
An alto saxophone
faster than any words
any thoughts except Art Peppers
A knife thrower with a face
full of glee
____________________________________________________________________________________
David Meltzer
Rumplestiltskin has a secret
and so does David Meltzer.
David weaves Secrets and Gold,
Music and Poetry.
The timekeeper,
he knows the rhythm of beating hearts.
The beginning of Music.
The beginning of Poetry.
His life is a sanctuary for both,
as he writes the poems music can celebrate.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Making You Wait
I could just shoot you
watch you stagger across the room
My favorite actor even in dying
posing, dropping to the ground
gasping, bewildered, unable to enjoy
your final moments
my gift to you, your death
somehow it would turn into
a misunderstanding
so instead I'll continue
to call in the night
and read you my poems
____________________________________________________________________________________
The Cookie Crumbles
Fragrant, beautiful,
with secret ingredients
that make her a wonder.
But then there’s a wearing away,
not like a precious stone
that time embraces,
but with rodents carrying her away on their backs. At times whole families
taking slivers, chunks, slices,
or a crumb for the rogue insect.
The cookie crumbles
as the strangers feast.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Sue’s Son
(for Gabriel Wildwood Trupin)
Out of the house and down the stairs,
where did he go?
With a dance step,
he held our lives in his movements.
Gravity was a game to him
and he created a light,
a pathway for us to follow.
A dance to caress us.
From the boy that didn’t believe in goodbye.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Picture
If when walking the beach
with my dog
I notice the gentleness of the sea
and how the waves always come back
If I see him rolling in the wet sand
I laugh, knowing this is a picture
A thing that will stay with me
a long time.
________________________________________________________________________________________
To John
Thinking to your time
by yourself or with me,
little freckled face boy with
too many diseases.
We used to play “Who could catch the most flies in the kitchen,”
Then the most fun digging a hole to China.
Only to be covered up by the dog.
That didn’t stop us.
We’d ride our bikes but got tired
and came home.
Watching you on the baseball field and
saying to people passing,
“See that pitcher. You mess with me
he’ll mess with you.”
Then later getting high together,
everything funny, laughing all the way down.
Once I gave you my last gram of hash,
a most gallant act.
Me showing you my first poems
all nervous.
You smiled and laughed, hitting
my arm.
I knew that was good, so I kept writing.
You moved away with lots of friends,
and I felt out of place.
We don’t write letters much,
but I hear you’re doing good betting on the horses.
I miss you sometimes,
and just want to say,
I loved having a big brother
that could play as good as you.
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Dates
( for Milt Jackson)
Back from Japan
around the table
a tape of your sound
moving listening
eating chicken legs
hoping to remember
that the man
I met
is the man I want
to meet
in a song
we can play
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Billy Higgins
Billy Higgins
and it’s all true.
At 12, with drumsticks in
his back pocket, he started
us on an adventure,
a spiral quest with music as our guide.
Billy Higgins
it’s all true.
The majestic smile,
the caress that took us
around the world.
His music timeless,
his life counted out in hours.
In a nightclub working,
in the rehearsal studio,
laughing, coming up with
kaleidoscope ideas,
then riding the reins
taking each one of us out
and then back in again.
The most recorded drummer
in American history,
at times, sleeping on
the streets of Manhattan,
he would take a rope
and tie his drums
around his waist, for
warmth, for safety, for
music, and I
thought of a cross and
we were his cross
and he carried us so far
and his music continues
to carry us and all generations.
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The Big Band
Two trumpets fell in love
and their music showed it.
Not a wasted note.
They joined a big band
and were proud to be
such beautiful instruments.
Playing or waiting their turn,
they were never out of reach.
And together they made
the heavens dance.
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You Know It’s For You
The days came and took you away.
But I remember making our bed (army style),
hoping you would notice clean sheets.
The little things that came.
A book, a picture, thinking it’s ours,
every second of it.
Many times the whole room
was filled with pain.
I wanted my fingers on your lips,
but turning away, I couldn’t
say anything.
All the things that weren’t said came back.
Our plan of the small house
at the beach.
Baking bread, giving it to you still warm.
It’s been many months.
Your face fades into others,
and there is a son somewhere
who will never get born.
_______________________________________________________________________________
The Lap of Luxury
(After Denise Levertov’s poem, “The Secret”)
The lap of luxury has changed over the years.
Right now a park bench,
a seat on the bus,
a beach with a few dogs.
These are the luxuries I notice most.
A few years ago,
knowing the time,
knowing the day,
fitting into imaginary places were a great luxury.
But the luxury that hasn’t changed
is the same as the need that hasn’t changed.
The book on my lap
finding a poem,
even a few good lines,
and sharing the thrill, the mystery,
the secret
with a new poet.
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Poetry Goes to the Dance
Everyone was waiting,
the piano and horns were ready,
the drums turned toward the door.
The music starts,
In walks poetry
and the words dance.
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