the long winter

“It’s 3:30 on a gray afternoon 
late in November.  

The clouds hang low,          
​and rain taps on the roof

There is nothing to do but sit                                        
in the dingy hall, lost in revery (1)

That day the huge water drowned all voices until it seemed a kind of silence unbroken
By anything: A time unto itself and still; (2)

Time has acquired a stillness,
​the hour breathes
Over a wine jug, ”(3)
 
I try to feel alive,
“but as it is, I am simply conscious.”  (4)

“What you are struggling with,” said                                
The psychologist, “is
a continuous song, something like                                                           
a telephone’s tone. Nebulous, noncommitted,
unrelenting, pretending  
to give you messages it can’t deliver.”(5)



(1) “Regret” by Judy Kronenfeld
​(2) “River Sound Remembered” by W.S. Merwin
(3) “Still Life” by Gottfried Benn
(4) “Night Letter” by Billy Collins
(5) “What’s Wrong” by Landis Everson

the song

an idea, an
emotion, a
thought, a
moment, a
melody, a
rhythm, a
note, a
particle, a
building block,  a
modicum of a song,
jotted on paper, a notebook, a phone, remembered   

the abstract becomes concrete, thoughts become melodies, feelings become chords,
motifs, harmony, lyrics, changes, progressions, hooks, verses, choruses, bridges,
concertos, arias, symphonies, suites,
in my head and
on paper

anticipation, practice, rehearsal, and
performance,
the final note is played
in that moment
time stops,
it is gone

on stage

I wait in the wings and
​listen for my cue as I
pace back and forth,
filled with nervous energy and anticipation.

I hold a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses and a wad of
fake paper bills. They tell me of the man I
will become when I take a step to my right, into
the light from the balcony that
claws its way into the
recesses of dark curtains,
faintly illuminating the others,
awaiting their own cues.

When I put on the glasses and step forward, all I
see is that piercing spotlight that (blocks) everything around it,
like a solitary star in the night sky, revealing the plastic and foam
set that resembles a house.    

When I put on the glasses and step forward, I
step around the bench and potted plant where
secrets are revealed, and up the stairs where the words
spoken by characters resonate and echo off
into the darkness beyond the stage.

When I put on the glasses and step forward, all I
hear are my footsteps on the wooden stage, breaking the silence
before I turn and recite my lines, so familiar, coming out of my mouth, but
at the same time feels like I am saying them for the first time.

the world beyond

There is a world beyond the one I know.            
I know it’s there, it’s in the books, and
I hear the stories, legends, myths; and so
they call to me: those tales of grand  
adventure, love, and opportunity.
I long to leave but I cannot; perhaps
because failure and uncertainty
exist in that world beyond, where maps
can’t guide you through the grey twilight,
hazy, unsure; that place is but a thought.
But I am afraid of the things that might
be, and all of the things that might not.

​I must dive into that great unknown, lest
all I have dreamed of, worked for, fades to dust.

Apostrophes: Odes to Coffee and Shakespeare

Ode to Coffee​

You are fuel for a nation,
Naturally bitter; sweetened by
Honey, milk, sugar.

You are exotic, born from the jungles
of Brazil or Indonesia;  
You are pedestrian, ground up into a can and
bought at the store down the street.

When I’m feeling under the weather, you
pick me up, you ol’ reliable friend, always
there when I need someone to lean on.

You wake me up in the mornings, and
you keep the sleep at bay come night.

Whether it be a shot of espresso or
a bottomless pot,
O, you glorious cuppa joe
What would we do without you?
​

———————————————

Ode to Shakespeare

O, thou master of verse
what could one write without
thy works? Surely something worse
for thy wit and thy words without a doubt
have called forth to all writers come after thee.

And forever and a day will all good men and true
hear the rhymes thou hast writ, the lines that be,
and lo, thou art immortal! Thou live on through
the hearts and minds of the millions thou
hast affected. Truly, if the music be the food
of love, then brevity be the soul of wit, right? Anyhow,
thy dramas are the stuff dreams are made on,
and thy comedies harken back to foregone
days in an instant. Do not you worry; this is the short and
the long of it: we thank thee, dear William.