words
and
wine
both flowing
ink
fills the pages
as
wine
fills the minds
two young poets
listening
to
miles
kind of blue
free form verses
swaying
on the page
to
changing tempos
rocking
back and forth
then
soaring
in
solos
incongruent
syllables
exposing
hidden emotions
from
deep within
their souls
pain
anger
and
moments
of
love
all revealed
in
a few stanzas
before
life interrupts
there’s always an antiseptic smell before death as if we truly believe we might cleanse death from our being it’s a fragrance of age we know it all too well from nursing homes and hospital halls but sense it even as we walk along a city street it makes us most sad when a passing child has whiffs of death we wonder why and where is god but are soon distracted by armani arden, or fresh-baked goods until when naked in the shower we find that fragrance
the brown bag prophet was humming a little tune as i walked by i said that’s an interesting song he said it’s my version of wade in the water but you probably couldn’t recognize it seems like i’ve always been singing out of tune guess i’m not one to harmonize to the chorus of social expectations nor to clap my hands to the beat of others preferring an off cadence of course leaving the close-order drill to success results in some failures so my failures were my own fault as a number of folks have been quick to point out to me saying you should have seen that coming i did but chose not to compromise who i believed myself to be in order to leave parts of my soul spread across a lifetime’s journey as breadcrumbs to follow back from society’s definition of success to where my identity still resides
putin’s puppet dances on strings of lies and alibis and without a backbone it’s quick to blame others for all its missteps but alas unlike the puppet who dances bebop when his master gets up and leaves it cannot stand alone so falls flat upon its face whimpering in the night tweet tweet tweet
i have several items for sale most have not been touched in seven or more years so should have been tossed out according to authorities on personal clutter but i’ve had them neatly stored in containers some in boxes requiring dusting others in old photo graphs with minor moisture damage there’s even a few cassettes of music for young lovers and although i’m unwilling to throw them away i’m more than willing to share these old memories at bargain prices
tell me what time will the angels of god descend from behind the walls of jericho and save this world from mankind taking up into their arms a child of god a child to be given new life when will they arrive and shall that be the time when the saints join in song filling the air like a thousand black birds whirling above the sadness we’ve known for all too long when oh when will the angels arrive making the earth truly alive
Poem Inspired by Spritual Standards Quinta: Markus Burger (Piano) & Jan Von Klewitz (Saxophone)
there were no reasons to sing but amal sang the song that his parents had taught him as a child amal the smart his hair is fair and tidy whoever loves you will kiss you he paused as he placed the last stone on their grave but whoever hates you will have problems he turned and walked away no longer a child of ten but an old man of war singing sleep sleep i wish i could have offered you a dove
Read Between the Minds 