Blur

Fault me — I henceforth forego jitterbugging feet
Assert some bias in my blood which rejects dancehall beat

As time tiktoks, I cling instead to swaying with the strings
Tango, Pan-Hellenic sway, and all such passion brings

Step danced exclamations void of pop-cultural fray
Barefoot, solo, or with friends — come…blur night into day

Things With Strings

See that small farm right there
See those young and old kids

Mine and his

Toys and mischief, solemnity and instruments strewn about
All things with strings — what heaven these things

Animals, there’s no choice

Alpacas, needing to wake us at dawn but, agreeable, settle in for the night before our dinnertime

Ebony dogs and snowy white chickens
No cows, but a cowboy

Keeps his white hat far back in our closet on a shelf and never puts my heart on a shelf

Comes home from work on time and Saturdays are his and mine

We get greasy together under the cover of some good old American steel

In the polebarn back there, muscle-bound memories we rebuild

Sundays are God’s, he says — how he leads the way, putting all striving aside for the day

On his knees each night in prayer

No need to prove himself to me ever again since he put me on a pedestal there in his heart of gold

Our house on a hill, our kids and our farm

His eyes and his time and his life

His gifts to me, Amen and Amen

Remembered

He
With a clarinet voice in June 
On a lone sun day sang his joy us tune
What a gift was he

Me
On a journey that won’t end soon
Thru windows without strings calling the moon
He’ll remember me


Blown 

The need to be not stricken
By the simplest song’s every low, strummed string 
The imagined scent riding the gentlest breeze
The hop, hop, hopping of some creature’s feet
Is great
Is doomed