So here goes nothing
and I must say I am pretty darn good at nothing.
Welcome to Muskrat, he's small, furry, opinionated, likes his music and books and his garden and the what not... Right now the sausage is burning on the stove top and the screen door is hanging off its hinges begging for attention but that will have to wait for another day. As for now here's a new poem or two rather that I feel pretty satisfied with at the current moment. But you know how it goes, what is life without constant revision.
The poets hands listening intently to Philip Glass playing six piano Etudes
Folded hands framed by creased blue jeans
Silhouetted against the darkness
Illuminated lines and veins
Fingers, three outstretched
Cross hatched charcoal shading techniques
Adopted by fingers at rest
Stark and lonesome like the faces in Walker Evans
Depression era photographs
These hands have seen the trouble
Lightning Hopkins gin soaked voice preached
And they have seen such beauty
Play piano on a Tuesday evening
Applause
An orchestra of hands collaborating between compositions
To compose a Philip Glass symphony
The musician framed in
by a stark Japanese brushstroke
a lonesome microphone stand
behind the arched back of the pianist
simple and black and linear
his arms crossing to strike a low note
Holy shit, Lee, this breaths deep. xo.
ReplyDeleteI'd like to see more poems, ramblings, reviews of music and books and the such.
ReplyDeleteI would like to read about Muskrat adventures. Love your poetry!
ReplyDelete