Just walking through a grocery store And then he heard the song; Somehow, it brought back everything He’d buried for so long They were so very young, and she So beautiful and sweet; The first time that he kissed her He could hear his own heart beat Why did he throw it all away? How … Continue reading "The Song"
Reverberant anachronism Strains of Tin Pan Alley lyricism Played as through a 1940’s radio (Twixt flashes on the fascist overthrow) Before you were alive or even thought Another world, a distant era caught Between the seasons we might call our lives While one young set of eyes somehow connives To make it to a world … Continue reading "The Seasons We Might Call Our Lives"
At 180 months, nobody Understood me like Prokofiev, The solitary walker in the white Of he Russia and me Florida Who knew my intervailing times Of drama and lyric introspection And who knew that underneath it all Lies the universal state of life: Dissonance
what can’t be said in sentences might still be felt in phrases; ubiquitously goes the theme through all its many phases a harmony of many pangs, a fugue of many sorrows that speak of our lost yesterdays and still to be tomorrows
I’m writing this on New Year’s Eve And listening to string quartets By Shostakovich, and They’re awesome. For, while life is full of messes, Stains, and blotches — these, instead, Are absolutely Perfect. And it makes A nice contrast Photo credit : ID 53562673 Ukrphoto | Dreamstime.com
Pandiatonic and encircling, In wind and waves of sound, A song of connection and Contemplation, Surrounding and Full of the numinous
We sang, for we were born to sing: The five of us, at home; For harmony was quite the thing, And music, polychrome In wintertime, the carols flew, The images, as well: Each story, be they stretched, or true, Delivered on the tell Yet fierce the moments sometimes, though – Like winter wind that’s blowing … Continue reading "A Different Kind of Gratitude"
when you don’t know that you can’t, you pretty much can
We will make music when we can, Although it might seem strange, To play with our realities And such extended range And yes, I know it’s vanity, And we’re all made of dust — But we make music everywhere: We do because We must