Scene: a bus stop, January, snowing, windy. Three people huddle in the small shelter. They are strangers to one another, though they have met here before. The winter-pale youth is thumbing his phone. The large African woman in blue jeans and a quilt coat is reading. The ambiguously fleshed old man, to whom they have … Continue reading A Tiff on Frost and the Rapper, Drake
Jeffery carried a guitar slung on his back. He did not know how to play it, not really. Although, he could strum enough to accompany himself singing “Red River Valley.” It might be noted that saying Jeffery sang “Red River Valley” is somewhat of an exaggeration. He played the four or five chords he knew … Continue reading The Axeman at the Cowboy Poetry Open Mic
Snow slants in wind, gloom all day, tonight, tomorrow— Out of murk—lark song https://cdn.audubon.org/cdn/farfuture/hf8Ia05D99GW1Fs4LlvuJmjrOkJGMziebr14clBDqc0/mtime:1416244689/sites/default/files/WESMEA_1.songnum1_NDle_1.mp3?uuid=5c9dfb194d507 In response to the Rattag Community daily prompt word Spring. Thanks to Audubon.org for recording of Western Meadow Lark
Empty all but pulse and blood from who you are and hope to be. Let drum, whose primal name is heartbeat, prime your pulse. Then walk. "How to Dance" first appeared in a collection entitled Dazed Part of Light, by Lee Robison.
His flute was capable of other wonderful sounds, even whole orchestras of lovely sound. But whatever the sheet music told him and wand-waver orchestrated, Ole Clive always managed to make sure C6-very-sharp was one of the sounds his flute managed to tweet.
The song of Ferni Diswalter’s life was like a vinyl 78 rpm record with a scratch across it. It went round and round on the turntable and kept playing the same small snatch of song over and over again. As you might expect, the snatch of lyric for Ferni’s life was from the hippie song … Continue reading After Forty-Five Groovin’ Years Ferni Diswalter Heads for San Francisco
The orchestra begins “O, say can you see,” and in the dusk those boys rise again from the tree line and form in rows sung into them with “Mine eyes have seen the glory.” Ranks waver and writhe like banners over rise and hollow. And boys begin to fall. Gaps appear and close, a fatal … Continue reading Waiting for Fireworks at Antietam National Battlefield
A quartet of quarters is a dollar. A dollar does not sing, although the coins ring when you drop them into a vagabond’s fiddle box. And if, under the long shadows and orange light of morning, that vagabond fiddle is joined by a rag-haired guitar, a withered old crone of a cello, and a quavery … Continue reading When a Quartet of Quarters Does Not Answer