Poetry Page 2

 

A Lion of the Spring

    by David Waite

 

 

Lao-tse says you can never recreate a tiger

that by describing him, you destroy him

because you can never put him back together again;

a thousand words never make a picture
and really, how can someone explain a tiger,
the strong paws and clenched throat,
to the boy that's never seen one?
 
but I saw Dave Van Ronk in a red barn
with a guitar that was beaten half to death
and I tell you he was a lion
right down to the roar,
the knotted red mane
which turned silver near the end of his life.
he lived in troubles, always
giving voice to satisfaction,
screaming loud in exhalation.
 
now no boy will know the feeling
of his gutbucket jazz and fingerpick
tearing at his thin chest
as Dave’s eyes widen in the dim light;
no one will feel
the steam breath rolling
as he sings Bertold Brecht,
making the pillars creek,
the roof begins to bend
that man who was Samson and a lion.
 
 
Bio: David Waite. See previous Bio from "Ballroom"(Page 1)

 

 
Always There, The Gift of Cadenza    
          
          by K.D. Hazelwood
 
 
Great Music
Stretches my soul
Across the sky,
My grand memories,
My forest park yard.
 
The symphony hiker,
With the glorious  gift of  Cadenza
Climbs like a lovely gregarious ivy,
Trying to kiss and dance with the clouds.
 
Always there,
My friends
In concertos,
Rolling rhythms,
And jumping jazz,
Traveling to meet
This broken heart,
This joyous heart,
Singing, humming  hope.
 
I listen closely,
Celebrate the unheard of,
The unsung,
Happily upholding
My heaping passion,
With wet eyes in disguise,
Even in the best of times,
This happens a lot.
 
Falling to pieces over something strummed,
Or maybe self-trumpeted,
Beautiful commentary uttered with an electric sax
Or 12-string Richenbacher,
And terribly touching, tinkling Steinway.
 
I single out that piccolo,
During fireworks,
A Starlight festival,
I can hardly contain myself,
My breath’s away,
Enchanted, emboldened.
 
I go there a lot,
 

 
By  River,

 

 
Layla

 

 
Or Bolero,

To name,
Just  barely
Skim the surface of,
Some cherished , chosen few.
 
 
Soul  stretching
With Music,
The very  nature of which
Seems quietly destined
To  just waltz in,
And waltz out,
But never wanting to leave..
 
Infinitely more to play,
It's always there,
Astral art and ascension in harmonics,
Riding the mounting musical air waves,
Unhappily yielding to the inevitable
Eventuality,
The end, the end!
But  brave and  beholden  for the excitement
Of tuning into
The next selection.
 
 
 
 
 Bio:  K.D. Hazelwood...why, the editor, of course!