Poet Songs and Jazz Bands

Poet Songs and Jazz Bands

(“You may drink from the brook. And I have commanded ravens to bring you food there.” 1 Kings 17:4)

I used to sit right up front,
I didn’t want to miss a thing. The way the sound passed
through the throat of the poetess I loved. I didn’t want
a single note to drop on the darkwood floor. I used to
write whatever came to mind.

There were rooms like water, the saxophone streamed over
the casement in background sounds of summer meadows.
We liked jazz, we loved Brubeck,
we danced if another would dance first.
There were lazy brooks
that smoothed stones for us to put in our pockets
and display on our shelves at home.

I used to hear the espresso hiss, black as ravens served in
ceramic thimbles. The troubadour never missed the chance
to soar between sad eyes and aspirations. We breathed the
same air, heavy like upholstery, waiting for the piece of bread
we would pass from table to unknowable. We never cared
for
the first cut or the upper crust,
we saw visions in the cups of wine set between us.

But some venues close and become
parking lots or clothing stores or memories lost
in youthful ideals. We thought we might find it again.
Maps are sometime edited, locations pressed flat
and forgotten.

Now I sit near the back,
if I go anywhere at all. Though today I did invite
a bald eagle whose white face and plume
seemed to take in everything. The sun broke the
field where cattle grazed
into perforated patches, an opportunity hatched
between land and sky. Looking past the clouds I
returned, still unsatisfied.

There are streams that never evaporate, if only
in mind.
There are birds that sing the songs you once heard
from poets, jazz bands and campfires in a simple
Kum Ba Yah.

I'll Be The Poet

I’ll Be The Poet
(“Then I will ever sing praises to Thy name, so I may daily pay my vows.”
Psalm 6:8)

I'll be the poet who sings your glory; no vanilla words.
I will not fear that my poems will not be
published next to works written by jewels and
read by budding scholars.

I’ll pen upon napkins old words turned around
familiarly to bounce near and up, piling them
finely, one syllable upon the other. I would try
to keep them short and friendly so the reader
(one does not write for oneself alone)
might see a face as if they’ve known it sometime before.

I’ll scratch with the pencil stub I found
in the parking lot…then quickly lest the
words be forgotten. I’ll weave them broadcloth,
linen and cotton; earthy sounds to carry
our solitary love to Love’s ear.

I’ll write of devotion, the passion forgotten,
that speaks simple, from puddles to bubble,
the lowly voice, single; lasting for the theme
enwraps eternal the universe’s song.

I’ll not pretend to command every diction
considered, I just throw the love like
kitestring knotted to flight breezes playing
over the meadow alone. Within sight
it dances where eyes face the smiles;
children captured after a sack-lunch picnic
on the lawn.

I’ll script the playbook, the single player
within the one-act composed over a single
day alone. A Cast of One, a song meant
to return the kiss of heaven; simple
words with a harp or plastic recorder
to play the interlude that leaves my soul
wanting more than just another set of
words.

Vanilla is fine; words may not rhyme,
but alone I find honesty, the cohesion of
joy and sorrow existing only in the
heart kissed once and wondering how long
until the Love of Heaven returns the song.