If I would just stop craving the sound of your voice, but then

If I could halt the remembering of the taste of your skin, but then

If I might not recall the feel of your hands on my body, but then

If I should ever forget the burn of your touch, but then

If I disinherited the ownership of your sighs, but then

If I were immune to the weight of your promise, but then

my one dear love, where will you stand when my train comes in?
in the dark, I wind my way around the puddles that only yesterday I jumped in with abandon

When thoughts of you arrest me in the day,
I catch my breath like clenching a fist
and stare at some small token in this life
and focus on nothing else until the feeling passes like a ghost
but I don't believe in ghosts

my sole true love, where will you be when the station closes down?
with such snares at night and so many traps in the day, what pitfall for tomorrow waits?

What do I have to guide me, what beacon or map
and will it be there when I stop lamenting my lot?
or will I have finally pushed the compass into a corner
where it can neither be seen nor felt
nor tearfully pried loose?

The distance of her is beginning to dull
such small mercies cannot be too lightly taken
by unteachable souls like mine
holding fast the rope anchored in time
long past the point of unraveling pull

The reluctance of him is starting to show
piece by piece like a shy child, patiently waiting
for the gaze of the looker to chance, drop,
willing only for the focus to stop
and pierce instead some minute undertow

The incandescence from them is waning a bit
not unlike the moon, sky appetite sating,
by carving a portion wider each day
then reversing to retrace the way
only to repeat the regret the heart won't forget

outside

Wind rakes through the blades of grass,
Miniscule avalanche clouds the hourglass
Didn't mark the bank with a stone
Failed to glance back and lost the way home

Under ladylike shelter of parasol trees
Verity floats down and stings like a bee
Falsehoods that snagged as they fell past my lips
Slick like a stone held in too tight a grip

Foxglove stalk dragged across my tongue
Bite down gently, whether whispered or sung
Oh, that the gods would promise relief
from the heat that singes tender leaf

Turn back straining to catch the notes
rushing water a lullaby fast becoming rote
How quickly the heat renderings can blur the way
and conjure the night by consuming the day

I've been existing underneath a thin veil
that hugs the contours of my soul
coloring the dreams that drift in
and taming the things that seep out

When you came in and lifted the edge
like an unexpected gust of wind
it pulled away at the corners, tugged at the seams
and I caught a glimpse of who I could have been

for today

after the anthem of our youth was stringently sung
and the bell for all but the third round had rung
so many times turned over in the dark
seeking tears that had missed their mark

put your marbles in the jar with mine
collide and let the chips fall where they will
sharper yet and prettier still
collude with time to steal a notch from her belt

Not Quite a Year Later...

Well.
I received a birthday present which was supposed to be a trigger for me to start writing daily. So, when I was tired and listening to the rain, I took a stab at some prose.

Not a bad first step.


I am
wedged between a heart and sheer rock face

fettering my feet by lowering the anchor
willing a stillness in a soul
that struggles against being caged

I am
snagged between a cove and lofty precipice

stoppering my breath by beckoning the blackness
chancing a glance into the depths below
where the waves rage on unfamiliar shores

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.html


A friend of mine who is a very talented, perhaps even frustrated, and definitely eloquent, musician commented on the above story which a patient had brought to my attention. His comments made me coalesce an idea in my mind (a cloud that daily grows bigger and darker) that perhaps I will just have a "composer of the week" for the kids and myself to listen to during homework hour. When we run out of classical, I will get back to you. Here's what he said:

No one really recognized how exceptionally performed the music was and I'm not exactly sure what that means. As a music educator I would like to simply say "we are musically uneducated" but I'm not sure it's that simple. I have heard several great jazz musicians say they perform exclusively for the pleasure and appreciation of other musicians. It's as if they've given up on trying to emotionally connect with the general population.

Are we uneducated or desensitized? I'd say both but mostly desensitized. When you are constantly bombarded with Rap, Rock, and instant gratification music; it's almost impossible to get someone's attention with music full of nuance, development , and dynamic contrasts. And you can't dismiss the fact classical music doesn't "play well" on car stereos where we spend most of our listening time. When you play Bach for a small child they generally move, dance and you can see their engagement and emotional response. The children were also most effected by Joshua Bell's subway performance. It's mostly we adults who are damaged, desensitized, and in a hurry. If I were going to enjoy Bach right now it would take a glass of wine and 20 minutes to wind down. Sad but true.