Well, the time has arrived for the fun to begin. The time has arrived for the words to spin through our ears, around inside our heads. Time for the music to start with a note in the key of C for creativity.
The movements include fugues, pasacaglias, bells, silences. Ther are blues and more blues, melodies in many colors, accelerandos, songs and odes of gratitude and clarinet tones. Let the symphony of poetry begin!
Feel like there is a weight on my chest
holding me down
hard to breathe
For all the movement it was making, it was very silent. For all the movement around it, it was still very silent.
Dave also encouraged all poets to become involved in Science Creative Quarterly’s Terry project, with global issues as the creative focal point.
was a tight-
shredding the night.
Maybe you can breathe freely, without loss…
Ice clinks in short glasses while I tap my thumb;
frosted ashtrays slowly fill with perfectly timed conversations.
In the shifting glimmer of the morning light
He awakes in terror at the lurid sight.
And his mind recoils from the pain of truth
That the white enamel was a human tooth.
His second submission also had a musical meter, along with an ironic message about Thanksgiving. It’s called Twas the Night of Thanksgiving.
Twas the night of Thanksgiving,
and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring
not even a mouse.
From the silence came the indigo melody
deep vibrations of abounding love
running like the water of life
standing in stillness
like the ocean of a soul.
Another very different bluesy tune is by Moose of Find me a Bluebird. I submitted this for him, uh, her, so it may disappear if he, uh, she disapproves of my boldness! This is called Blue Hypnotic Fragment. It’s somehow sultry and upbeat at the same time.
alone in the middle of the room
focus drawn close
body overtaken by rhythm
moving in a new language of pulsation
Adam sent this serious movement warning against the dangerous power of music. It’s called The Journey of Music.
Feel the cold steel of a Saturday night special
Up against your throat
Telephone wires race along
whispering their electric song
tires on the road quietly hum
Silence is my only friend
when their songs sadly end
fingers on the wheel begin to drum
And here is my little ditty called Grenadilla Tone, about the qualities and sensualities of the tone I (try) to produce on the clarinet. It starts out…
Blurted air flaps my reed
to rasp a sneeze across its paper
thin tip, a flag snapping in the wind.
Raw chunks of sound, churned butter
grows mellow with aged consistency,
evolving with me, my lipsâ€™ brother.
This weekend, my daughter turned Ten.
We held a party that just would not end.
Eight little girls full of sugar and color,
Testing the patience of an old tired mother.
All creation sings to its Creator, In the bible the trees are clapping their hands, the hill will rejoice, people sing, birds sing, other animals sing. and in my poem Light itself sings.
The Greeks heard it
Before there was anything else
Lastly, I whipped up a froth of warm Thanksgiving pudding to sooth the quivering soul after such a repast of rich music.
Outside, the gardenâ€™s disarray reflects his own spirit.
He gazes beyond today’s errie political mendacity,
attempting to follow the message of Thanksgiving.
The seasonâ€™s story asks with answers and gives questions.
Goodnight, and sweet creams.