MUSIC APPRECIATION
He asked them
to take the
music outside,
listen as
they held it toward the sky,
let the wind
rattle its stems,
or place the
sheet against an ear
to hear a
tune
through the
hollow of its shell.
He told them
to jog
the
parameters of the staves,
walk the
winding road of its clef
and imagine
living there.
Perhaps they
could drop a feather
upon the
music’s resonance,
follow its
float among the timbres,
or ski the
slopes of musical peaks,
gliding
unencumbered into its valleys,
then thank
the composer
for varying
the landscape
when they
left the lodge.
But the class
was determined
to stalk each
phrase,
analyze
chords for manipulation, cunning
and seek the
hidden form.
They
handcuffed the notes
to the music
stand,
even flogged
the melody
with a drum
mallet,
until it
whistled a meaning
never
intended.
MOONBEAM
Every night
a different message.
Tell me tonight
about the translucent bones
of icicles on the gutter.
Their tale is a disclosure
of your stalking.
You enter as a burglar
on the heels of darkness
and leave no fingerprints,
yet cleverly steal away secrets
between the elusive shadows
you create,
some darker than others,
convoluted figures
rummaging in the most remote corners
of the room.
The sleepless await an explanation
but your peering eyes
slip away
when the clouds make you blink.
If you do take something,
no one is the wiser.
The sand in your light
eventually blinds into submission
the most suspicious
who, in the morning,
awake inspired
yet unaware of your intrusion,
until the icicles drip
in the rising sunlight.
A LACK OF RAIN
If there were no rain,
there would be
far too little noise on the roof
or upon the window pane
that would distract us
from the pulse in our inner ear
through the silence at night,
no gutter song to lull us to sleep,
no applause of wet leaves
for thirst-quenching relief.
In a cloudless sky
and barren landscape,
the rain would no longer
astonish our senses
with torrents that flood the riverbeds
then angrily fall from summit’s edge
upon boulders that spray
a foaming mane of platinum.
Car wheels would pass like a cough,
the absence of a splash
that might instigate our adrenalin,
administers calm instead.
The sky would no longer
be crowded with giant gray eyelids
that occasionally coax
the sun to sleep
and allow us to focus
upon the mysterious messages
their odd, translucent shapes impart.
Without the rain,
our very lives would drift instead,
fantasy vapors
against the cobalt blue,
twinkling and as aimless as dust.
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