Thursday, March 19, 2009

Harbor front

The water pulses; endless waves endlessly failing;
Heartless gestures.

Far out over the bay the king-hell bridge lies sandwiched between two seas;
Water below and smog above.
It crawls with white trucks;
Like maggots on a twig.

On opposing shore, buildings rise from the tree layer which masks the concrete jungle beyond.

Steel plant smoke stacks rise from great brown piles of brownness.
They are cold and empty now
Because a dose of reality labelled pour ekonomy
Is spoiling all our golden dreams.

It’s almost spring and a dozen rusty leaves rattle in the wind,
Death-grip on the barren tree still holding.

Thrum of bicycle chains come now and then and go.
A pair of roller blades zooms and whirs
Like a fighter space jet.

Gulls shriek as if being cooked alive;
Remind of the strangled coughing spasms upstairs
Keeping me awake last night;
Leaving me sleepy.

Sudden cool wind on my nape jars me awake.
Strong breeze turns the page; I grasp it tight
So it turns the other page.
The wind does not want this poem written.

Red-leafed flag flaps and claps.

Man in lycra addresses his beeping apparatus;
Drinks water from a flask made of some material
beginning with the prefix poly;
Reminds me I could go for a cracker.

Teenage girls are making a list of everyone they know who are pregnant.

A man objects to my putting the guitar away;
Wants to hear some bluegrass.
I doubt my songs would qualify.

Pointy sailboat finally slides by
Like a needle marking tree trunk graduations.
Fifty white birds meet it head on;
Skimming the steel blue surface
In rock-steady formation.

Man and boy in matching caps arrive with rods and reels.
Junior is neither petulant or sluggish but eager to cast.
They seem fond of their circumstance
And one another.

Only straight above does the sky appear that most striking of blues;
Mankind’s favourite colour.
The shield between we and an eternal endless wasteland of hydrogen and radiation
Dotted with improbable oases which I will never see
Because the most worthwhile thing in the cosmos is we,
And we are not meant to last
And we seem not to know that we are
Or that we aren’t.

Monday, March 09, 2009

Song: Sheets of Canvas

I'm composing tunes these days. This one is full of delightful D chords. D6, Dsus2, Dsus4, etc. Also a G-add2 and a modified Gm. It would sound better, I think, if sung by a female - or, you know - anyone who can actually sing.

Sheets of Canvas

It's the space within the frame
Where visions brought to life with care
From treasures of the spectrum lay
Upon the surface layer by layer.

Azure lake and robin sky,
Ivory mountain, trees of green,
A shallow V; the trace of wings;
Whispers of freedom grace the scene.

In sheets of books the learning's only
A gathering of testimony.
In sheets of canvas the mind embraces
A gathering of eternal skies
In the spaces
Where the canvas lies.

It's the hand that gathers wind
And pulls you 'cross that azure lake
Away from cells of endless noise
And wins your solitary escape.

Alone on the water and in your mind
With trees and mountains at your side,
The evidence of senses
Cannot be denied.

In sheets of books the learning's only
A gathering of testimony.
In sheets of canvas the mind embraces
The truth that only the sailor knows
In the spaces
Where the canvas blows.

It's the shelter where you lie
Beneath the sea of heavenly lights
When flame has turned to embers
And the gazing is done for the night.

A glimpse of Earthly reality
There in the cedars and the pines.
A sense of the world's eternity
Alone on a mountainside.

In sheets of books the learning's only
A gathering of testimony.
In sheets of canvas the mind embraces
The wisdom seeded in rivers and parks
And the spaces
Where the canvas arcs.