Easter Morning Meditations

Must my shadow be so dark
From my bed I rise into another dawn
What will this life hold for me
in these years of passing life
Focusing light into a point
so bright that it won't be denied

strings plucked so vibrantly
as the drums bubble over like waves
invocation to peace and mindfulness
from here life begins   peace of heart
peace of mind   does the soul alight
in you now  close your eyes and listen
this place you have wished to be has
always been within  listen to the still
ness of life   listen  here  now  here
let it flow from crown to toe sunlight
washing over you  filling you  now it
becomes you  free yourself from that
which brings you harm  words repeat
in quiet breaths  focusing thoughts
the sound which calls you to be more
more than merely living  to be alive
to live with honesty and humility
to live with the truth of life itself
invitation to higher connection
thoughts which bring peace
words which bring serenity
all that we are and will yet be
past and future selves in one being
awake at the shore and overwhelmed
rise and fall of the tide  soft white
peaks dissipate  create a trail for
others to follow words like breath
within me and without be unafraid
my better nature is fighting for the light
remember the lessons of your father

Those who can hear
Those who can feel
cannot doubt that which flows through

Hands glide over keys
Your feet picking up the beat
Fingers plucking notes

West Coast Cool

her tongue is an improvisation
running scales into me

sheets of sound blare
forcing my eyes to close

skin keeps contact against skin

fingers comping chords
right hand plucking

a melody from nowhere

breath as smooth as trumpet
lines from the school

of west coast cool

warm tone
of upright bass

I become upright

as everything drops
away for the deep toned

solo played with a bow

leading in with a crash
our heads cock back

landing on the one

back on beat

like always

T.Monk

They say he had a piano
with him in those final years
but he never played it.

Could it have been because
there are sounds too beautiful
for the world to ever hear?

The Remains of Giants

I like to sit and listen to music made by men
who have been dead for years,
and in some cases decades.
A few of them had been addicts
to the same mistress,
killed by one-sided desire,
a few of them survived their ill-thought
romance.
Those details don't matter,
don't affect my enjoyment of the sounds
streaming from my speakers.
A tenor sax emerges through the groove,
dominates the aural spectrum,
a dry ride articulates
a swung eighth note.
Vamping on the mode is the crystalline sound
of a man
whose hands could have played Satie
in grand concert halls
but decided to pursue his craft
in small, smokey rooms.

Silent Ways

I.

We sat in silence and stared 
out the windshield.

She turned her head and looked 
at me for a moment.

I kept looking straight ahead.


II.

"You mind if I put some music on?"
I said I didn't. She reached 

for the floor and the beat-up
cd cases sitting there.

The floor was such a mess.


III.

She picked my favorite album
by Miles Davis. On the cover

his face gazes a sight we 
cannot see. 

Droning organ, us, closer.

She Looked Like Marilyn (Draft 1)

She held the door open for her friend as they walked into the office. 

Her friend was hunched over and moved slowly with her cane. After

her friend was inside, she closed the door. "Would you mind if we 

wait here?" she said. I told her it was no problem. The theatre wasn't

going to be open for another 20 minutes or so. 

"I hope you don't mind us waiting in here with you." Her hair was 

done in the same way Marilyn Monroe had in the movie "The Seven

Year Itch". Everyone knows that movie or at least the scene where

her white dress billows up around her over a vent in the street. Unlike 

Marilyn, she wasn't wearing a white dress, though her blouse was 

white. Her face was framed by glasses too large for her face. She

must have been very beautiful when she was younger. Even though

beauty fades, traces of it linger on. 

Her friend was resting comfortably in the overstuffed red velvet chair.

She could have sat down but instead was looking at the pictures on 

the wall. Some of them have been on display longer than I've been alive.

That's part of the charm of working in a place as old as this theatre. 

She turned to me as she pointed towards a black and white picture of 

a man playing sax. "Do you know who that is?" I told her I didn't.

"That's Stan Getz. I was here the night that picture was taken. It was

a wonderful performance. He had just put out an album with a young

brazilian guitarist. The guitarists wife sang a couple of songs on the

record as well. The music was heavenly. Have you heard the record

I'm talking about? It was called Getz/Gilberto."

I thought about it for a moment. I remember my dad would play old

jazz records in the house when I was growing up. The name was 

familiar enough. I was certain I had heard the album she was talking

about. I told her I wasn't entirely sure.

"You should listen to it some time. It's a very romantic album."

She looked across the pictures on the wall but her eyes always

came back to rest on that picture. 

"Do you see the carnation on his lapel?" she asked. I stood up

from behind the desk to take a better look. Sure enough, there

was a white carnation on his lapel. I told her I had never noticed

that before. She smiled. "I gave that to him."

"I would go see him play at The Lighthouse all the time back then.

He was always so handsome. After seeing me at a few performances

he came up to me and introduced himself between sets. I couldn't 

believe he had noticed me. He told me that he was going to be doing

a theatre show in a few weeks and that he would like to see me there

and to come by early. I made sure to be there early to see him. When

I walked up I saw him standing in the alley with the rest of the group.

As soon as he saw me he walked over and told the band he would

be back. I ad brought along a white carnation from my mother's garden.

When he saw it in my hand he asked me what it was for. I told him

it was for him to wear at the concert. He smiled and asked if I was 

going to pin it on him. I remember feeling my cheeks grow fiery hot.

Once I pinned the carnation to his lapel he came in closer and said

we should go have a drink together."

I looked over and saw that her friend had practically fallen asleep

in the overstuffed chair. I didn't blame her. If I was that old and 

in that comfortable of a chair I would probably do the same thing.

"We walked over to this small bar that used to be around the corner

from here. There were only a few other people in there beside us. 

We settled into a small booth near the back. He told me all about 

Brazil and how lovely the people and the music there were. He 

spoke in a way that matched his playing. He looked at his watch

and said we needed to get going for the show. As we walked into

the street he took my hand and held it. His fingers locked with mine

and I squeezed it. We got to the ticket window and he told the girl

inside that I was his guest. He reached in and kissed me. Find me 

after the show he said."

"The girl had the usher take me in and sat me in the perfect place

to see the performance. They played marvelously that night. I 

couldn't help but think how handsome he looked as he played 

with the carnation on his lapel."

I looked at my watch and saw that we were about to open the

doors for seating.

"Ma'am. We're about to start seating. Would you like me to show

you to your seats?"

"That would be wonderful."

She helped her friend up as I held the door open for the two of

them. 

"We were beautiful once" she said.