:: :: :: :: terrible dragon: slaying the world one poem at a time :: :: :: ::
Monday, February 20, 2006
Strains of the rarest skies
Our Ladies Of Kingdoms To Come
In glorious morning sunlight as golden as the Devil’s silver tongue, the church women plan their afterlives on the cozy café couch. I overhear their velvet conversations, burgundy and corduroy, chaffed in the simultaneous chitter of sparrows in a catless world.
Heaven shall be duly redecorated and made wholly right in their image. Harps will be inlaid with new appointments designed to accent subtler light on seraphic strings. Streets shall have flowerpots burgeoning with verdance and everblossom every ten feet and the robes of its gleaming citizens pressed and scented with strains of the rarest skies shimmering in nameless hues refracted in storied dusks and legendary dawns.
In their next world, the sun sets on cue and stars and moons may be arranged to suited tastes. Novae and comets can be dragged and dropped to fill whatever lonely voids might require them. Unbeholdable beauty shall eclipse every fear they unwittingly smuggled in until they can safely ignore that they indeed exist, even here.
With their holy books littered between crumbcake and red-stained cup rims, keys resting their precious jangles, reading glasses polished and placed precisely at the ready, I want to take each of their over-lotioned faces in my strong hands, parse them with soft kisses and tell them I love them, that I love their visions, the planned improvements they conspire to make, that value accrues in rapture.
Perfection is an eternal pursuit, even for the gods. They ask only our aid in this endless obsession in attaining that which was created to elude them. That is why they made us in our own image, that they might accept our misplaced blame and relieve the mind of such inconsequential and unnecessary burden. And this is why my seated heart genuflects before these ladies, these dear ladies, who would see to it my soul might be comforted and comfortable in the blissborne Paradise as they go forth to prepare a place for me.
rises in the same place, clears the same horizon, trees, barns, dunes, telegraph poles. Some stop a moment to draw it near, some draw near to it. The breath slows, the air curries the history of the wind and all the secret things this moon ever whispered, or screamed at the top of its arc, when no one was there to decipher or listen.
I remember when it was much larger, when it filled the sky and you had to turn your head to drink it all in. Those were more turbulent times than these, devoid of the wheel, of technology, and the invisible atom was yet safely locked up.
One had to seek shelter each night when the terrors of the darkness moved freely without challenge, when fire fell from the sky with regularity, with mystery, and it had yet to be harnessed to the hand, metaphored into the heart, worshipped into beautiful and necessary gods.
Another moon rises larger at first and smalls as it continues into the black spaces that serve to make illumination what it is. I stop and suss it in through my mouth in soft steady savors as if the first might be different from the second, the second more rare than the first, the thousandth more tided with the story we have in common.
Another moon asks for what it needs most and I comply with the few tears I can provide, hoping that others, that you, might make in this moment a small offering that she might come home.
just play, no posing, no pumping fretless instruments into victorious air, just play for playing music sakes. Inversions splay the fingers spastic, diminished augmented suspended ninths provide the safety net for a muted trumpeter to walk out certain and balanced over improvised, dangerous air.
The jazz boys are cool. Way cool. Every band I was ever in was never this kicked back because we couldn’t be. Rock and jazz elicit different expectations. One enters the idling vehicle by different methods and the manner is as much the drive as the going, the blazing, the crashing.
Rock is about rebellion and resistance, running until ruin redeems whatever remains. Jazz is about a shaded nod of appreciation when the solo subsides and the lips are unpressed from fleshy purses paid out in the sheeted coinage of black notes staining smoke in blue bruises and minted beats.
On stage, the jazz boys whisper and cue in a language invented before their father’s fathers were born, a cool cool tongue they are readily fluent in beyond the soft palates of their tender years.
The jazz boys play. They just play. And it is enough.
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.