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.

Freeze Frame

 
I don’t know what drew me here. Something mysterious. Maybe the specter of death? That breathing presence behind me? It doesn’t feel like anything that benign or cosmic. I think it’s the constant fear of being criticized. I can’t say “no hope, no fear” in my personal relationships. I’m always afraid I’m going to be accused of breaking some social rule.  Like in high school. Some rule I didn’t agree to. Some rule I didn’t even know about.

A friend pokes me with her sword from time to time, as if my amorphous mass of feelings and thoughts aren’t enough – or aren't inviolate. I’m always slightly horrified and guilty to be awakened from my beautiful slumber – that crucible or slurry of dreams and portents never far from my consciousness.

I wanted to write about this. And about missing my soulmate. Not him the person but him the presence – my lover in the ethers. Where is he now, and who is he now? Is he happy? Is he safe? I reach out with my timeless love and invincible care.

I leave a fingerprint just to mark my place, with an old sketch when I was creating affirmations to prod me into making art, like a frog being pushed by its fond parent to slide into the pond and kick. You don't know you can swim until you try. Now that my memoir is out in the world, I feel like that frog, slowly floating down while the fragments of lilies and minnows settle around me.