FROM JAZZ FINGERINGS
Music thread-side marvels way into the practice room of the mind
where syllables collide with desire a pearl apart from intention
of the teacher who looks good in blue with your eyes closed
awaiting the anointed ear to commune with waiting silence
a music of its own left in neutral if there is such a thing if only
for a little while informal caritas that smells like feeble smoke
of the thinning trees steeped with primacy the once grass blades
mere patches on the lawn a form of history to spawn belief
in another season courtly or routine we slide into with child on lap
as various among us run laps around worn patches of evidence
there was once a spree allowing various among us to laugh and squeal
summer tactics into no microphone while weighing only the pulp
of another round of season change dampened by silver and its variants
while tipping the mirror gravity toward rose hips and full sentences
sounding relaxed with half tones mouths open three fingers wide
to let in jazz through the autumn screens of syllables
farmed and framed within the sacristy of healing from hearing
plain tones turned repertoire in tune with playthings once instruments
we touch into an essence cautious as a franking privilege
a form of translating the lariat of language into pure tones
released into the atmosphere with naturalness akin to elegance.
FROM JAZZ FINGERINGS
#10
Reach is arch until soft background climbs the distance
to the votive lip of a single tone that leaves the swirl away
from what seems thought as ripe as accidental parchment
that one might keep festooned with an emergent flush
of sun suds disappearing into nextness, the white comb
of inclusion as drapes fall upon small recollection still lodged
somewhere color forgot to forge. A whisper then imbued
with confidence forms out of the air amid percussion
that speaks only itself resembling requisite dark within the room
apart from mist and breeze and chastity if that exists beyond
default of being left where wind left off the silvery soft
genuine blond blame sequestered where mind can only lean,
not traverse unless susurrous blanching leaves us thin with
whole energy peeled off firm tree bark you could write on
as though intention needed only rest to find a flower never meant
to be a possession, yet the strings like vines move ahead with
what is learned as measured thought unmustered never austere
gentle with the hue of wheat pre-silo and intact as melody
rounds the constant room for more mauve, more sweet drum
planted and stilled with posture of context, such sweet mood
sounds in garden taste the ripple of why not cast about for
what an anything without a name might come to mean.
FROM JAZZ FINGERINGS
Reach is arch until soft background climbs the distance
to the votive lip of a single tone that leaves the swirl away
from what seems thought as ripe as accidental parchment
that one might keep festooned with an emergent flush
of sun suds disappearing into nextness, the white comb
of inclusion as drapes fall upon small recollection still lodged
somewhere color forgot to forge. A whisper then imbued
with confidence forms out of the air amid percussion
that speaks only itself resembling requisite dark within the room
apart from mist and breeze and chastity if that exists beyond
default of being left where wind left off the silvery soft
genuine blond blame sequestered where mind can only lean,
not traverse unless susurrous blanching leaves us thin with
whole energy peeled off firm tree bark you could write on
as though intention needed only rest to find a flower never meant
to be a possession, yet the strings like vines move ahead with
what is learned as measured thought unmustered never austere
gentle with the hue of wheat pre-silo and intact as melody
rounds the constant room for more mauve, more sweet drum
planted and stilled with posture of context, such sweet mood
sounds in garden taste the ripple of why not cast about for
what an anything without a name might come to mean.
FROM JAZZ FINGERINGS
#14
Whisper counts as percussion only partly heard as a sweet handwritten
letter touched by hands that reach for music one sheet at a time. October
approaches softer daylight only a mood from known rustle of crisp leaves
an instrument of feline calm staved warm a half tone relaxed
from tension unforced as a hammock on a day with lemonade and conversation.
How still yellow are the finches holding tones releasing light a question
breathed open into new possible notes? Brass echoes filch the rest to fill
with suave smoke against a thought turned music performing trills and weather.
Serenity shifts to mild flash of the fingering, a trellis of subtle intent
only a listener can follow home improvised only to invent another
magnetic amity free to vary, overtones left open with leeway a field of
thinking that sails past its history and breathes new wind into a frame
discovered among the quiet branches moving as breath before a melody
comes true in private only measures from a clean slate constructing
intonation ahead of the line dividing sound from pauses living between
now and countdown apart from bells punctuating rest and intonation
the fingers feel in free play, the rules with bitten nails and breezeway
marking the loss of innocence unfractured where decibels leave quiet
intact unvoiced and shepherded lightly into a newly combed arrival.
What once felt white now tinged with ceremonial finesse where lithe
Speech turns tacit repair of once energy now made whole.