Nuance

 

As he softly lays down his honed voice,

In grooves that give him room to improvise

From tenor to bass.

He turns so pretty like a young man with a looking glass.

Whispers, mumbles, flies the kite of song

In a signature growl and sage lullaby.

 

When he raises the volume, it feels like he’s

Letting us in on a secret.

Sincere and still full of surprises.

 

Some lines I've never heard before,

Like getting a letter from an old friend.

A man who knows even his stumbles are adorable.

 

Love me lightly, let the wind blow high …

I forgot how he laughs and sings

At the same time.

Midnight’s broken tongue … 

A phrase floats into mind

From a kaleidoscope of memory.

 

Harmonica like a hug.

Or a good meal.

Medicine for our blues.

***

I wrote this while listening to my first Bob Dylan concert a few weeks ago. Though he'd been a part of my life since 1964, I had never seen him in person. It was a memorable experience.

 

Ephemera

Poetry isn't a task, a chore, or project.

It's a joyful moment,

An ephemeral process of

Reaching up into the ethers

And grasping whatever is there. 

Looking at it,

Witnessing it,

Having a conversation with it.

Poems are like birds,

Each with its own flight,

Nest and favorite tree.

Each with its own version of song.

Birds occasionally flock together

On the lawn to gather food

Or fly away for

The winter.

Do poems?

 

Thoughts Before Sleep

 

Beautiful anonymity.

That’s what I’m feeling.

The sense of being one with the night, the plunk of rain,

Muted cricket symphony fills my inner ear,

The magical quiet of aloneness.

With nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Freedom bathed in cosmic love.

 

The joy of breathing in a body.

The ecstasy of communion with life.

Still in the cocoon.

Not finished yet.