Poetry: For April and Les

BIRTH OF A DIVA

The singer wandered
     questing only
     for the loved notes
     of the master Verdi
     scribed for all posterity
     on the biblical pages
     of the score
     she explored the organ room

The organ had been
     a friend
     a bewitching lover
     who caressed
     the golden notes
     she expressively warbled

Echoing through the hall
     they became as one
     the organ and she
     sustaining each other
     in a single, ecstatic union
     that only singer and organ
     could know

But the organ was tired
     of accompanying an alto
     of sounding low
     mournful notes
     repeatedly
     endlessly
     Sunday after Sunday

It yearned for a
     loftier
     happier
     sound

And as the singer
     obliviously delighting
     in her discovery
     of Verdi's Requiem
     reached toward the
     high shelf

Her skirt
     dangled precariously close
     to the organ's diligent
     hard-working
    air compressor

The organ
     always alert for
     targets of opportunity
     seized the skirt
     and sucked
     with all of its might
     dragging her toward
     its ubiquitous maw

And in that instant
     the organ was rewarded
     beyond all expectation
     as the singer
     in startled surprise
     issued forth
     with the most incredible
     high notes.

(This was written for April, a fellow alto and friend of mine from the Gregg Smith Singers, who was injured when, just like the poem says, she got too close to the air compressor of a pipe organ at church.  She was injured and even needed skin grafting to repair the injury.  Being a good sport with a great sense of humor, and despite her being injured, we had many great laughs over this incident.) 


FOR LES

A minuscule piece of lead
travels with tremendous speed
as it explodes
from the barrel
vectoring straight and unyielding.

Should it not know
its destination
and rebelling
turn back and
attack the quivering hand
that launched it?

Yet unwavering in resolve
it screams forth
shattering bone
scattering blood
forcing the soul to flee

So tiny
how can it do
so much damage?

I'll never understand
how a single bullet
can silence
so much music.

(This was written for another friend of mine, Leslie Dorsey, also a member of The Gregg Smith Singers.  Les, who was 44, was driving a gypsy cab in New York  on Labor Day 1988 to earn extra money to put his daughter through college.  He was killed during a robbery, shot point-blank in the back of the head by one of three men in his cab.  He was tentatively identified by police the next day, and it was almost a week before his family learned he had been murdered.  He was a very caring father and an incredibly gifted musician.)

Poetry: The Mountain

THE MOUNTAIN

"By order of the Earth, come forth,"
     the Mountain commanded,
Its huge voice resembling the wind
Storming through boundless stands of virgin timber.
I crept closer
And with repentant eyes
Surveyed the cold immensity of that
     Mountain face.
Staring toward me with majesty
     humbling my very soul, it reprimanded,
"You think yourself unworthy to be a part
     of the same world as I?"
"But," I pleaded, sweat dampening my brow,
"You stand vast and eternal,
Mankind has looked upon your rocky visage
     from the dawn of time
With wonder.
As ruler over all you see,
You know all, and live forever.
How can I compare?"

The Mountain seemed to smile,
Dislodging a pebble from the corner
     of its rugged mouth
"No, my child, only God is eternal.
For all His creations there is a time
     and a place.
Even I have a beginning
     and an end."

"Could you impart some of your wisdom
     to me?" I pleaded again.
"One small insight into the meaning
     of existence;
One thing to be thankful for?"

"Surely, my child,
Let us go down into the valley
     where the stream trickles through,
To gaze upon the elk and the deer.
The summer breeze will warm us,
And my wisdom will be all
     for you to hear."

I began to journey, but after several steps
Turned toward the silence at my back.
The Mountain, stony and immobile,
     watched me with sorrowfulness.
Its waterfall,
Which had once been an echo
     of a mighty voice
Had become a torrent of tears.

"Perhaps you begin to understand?"
     the Mountain queried
Its voice now seeming a
     windless whisper.

I turned and started down the mountain
Amazed at the infinity mobility
Within my two
Small feet.

Poetry: On the Lighter Side

SLATE RUN TALISMAN

I know a place
Across the creek
Where you can wade to on a hot
     summer's day
When the water runs low in its banks
Where you can sneak up to the
     train tracks
Staying hidden by tall marsh grass
And, when the train's not looking
Steal a penny onto its track
To be smashed flat when the train
Hurrying to be on time
Fails to see it lying there
Quietly
Waiting with anticipation
And to skip along with it in
     your pocket
Feeling the smoothness against
     your palm
Knowing its been to a place where
     you can't tread
Ah, the joys of youth
To take such delight
In flat pennies.


INITIAL EXPERIMENTS

We honor our youthful scientists who
     after careful experimentation
    deduced

That quartzite
     crushed ever so finely
     layered lightly atop
     garden soil
     containing only minimal amounts
     of sand or shale
     could be spread evenly over earth
     with a high oil content
     usually scraped from beneath the
     family car

To make the most wonderful
     mud pies.


TIMESCAPE

One has only to sit
along the shore
and gaze intently
at that unfathomable horizon
to become
a time traveler. 


ERIK

With a giggle
     he takes his rake and playfully
     scatters the leaves in all directions.
He looks like quite the character
     with his grandfather's cap
     six times too large for him
     haphazardly perched
     atop his head.
Stumbling on an untied shoelace
     he drops the rake and races off
     toward the trees
     an imagined safe haven
     from the friendly ghoul
     who gives chase.
But luck is not with him.
The monster charges and with a grin
     lifts him into the air
     scantly four steps from the shelter
     of a big maple tree.
Amid strains of laughter
     he and his grandfather
     roll onto the ground
     throwing the once-raked leaves
     toward each other,
Accumulating mud and grass stains
     on their knees.


GREG

I had to laugh
a moment ago
as I watched your tiny feet
still uncoordinated
and not too helpful
trying to run along the beach
joyfully chasing shells
before the waves
could carry them away
your little suit falling
down around your ankles

Yet I sense fear
as your watchful eyes gaze
over those crashing waves
never venturing too far
not wanting Daddy to wade
towards that watery horizon
as you sit
perched upon his shoulders

Fear not, little one
you may find as you grow older
the sea holds the answers
to many of life's questions
if you sit beside her long enough
and wait.


ALONE

Alone
I sit under a dark cloud of doubt
Yet, as I look up
I see untold billions of stars
Each glancing down with a contented glow
I wonder
Are we the only living things in this universe?
Small blobs of protoplasm bouncing around
Each tending his own business
With no concern for each other?

I know
That we are not the only things in this universe
It was not created for us alone
For as many stars there are, so too
May there be
Habitable plants.

Alone
I sit, yet not alone
For as I look up at untold
Billions of stars
I know there are untold
Billions of eyes
Looking back
At me.