A steady beat

A saxophonist played a steady beat while

a trumpeter played at his horn, clari-

netted up some with mischievous wiles,

and these all keep time together, yes these three.

I know what you’ll say, they’re all to different,

oh how could they keep a beat together?

Alone to themselves, sure, they can keep reverence

like a crow cast in monochrome feathers.

But chill, if you’re thinking of harmony

rules ‘n the pretty plastic pictures it gives

to your own modeled uniformity

than drop music and find a life to live.

         Harmony’s not kept in one special meter

         but it’s found when these three play jazz together.

When the Ghost Light Comes Out

In that last moment, before the lights go,

before we pack up the remains of our show,

when our energy’s sapped and our movements slow,

and in joy for day’s success, people shout.

It is in that moment, in that last light,

standing steady guard and shining so bright

that there’s a pause, to forget the day’s plight,

and to think for a beat what life’s about.

It is in that moment, staring here now

at one single star, alone after the bows,

reminding the dead, who come here to row,

there’s something great here, and that they don’t doubt.

         The talking's finished, the play’s finished it’s bout,

         in this final moment, when the ghost light comes

                  out.

To Readers

I regret to say that I shall have to take a one week Hiatus. I will resume my sonnets next Monday, April 15. In the mean time, for today, please enjoy this free-form poem.

At the Gate

A photographer crossed the street,

I saw him just now.

He was staring through his lens

and a truck ran him over.

It was cold outside, and grey across the sky,

Rain had left a sheen that dulled

The lights around him and I smelled wet dog. I waited on

The other side for the light to change.

Wind bit at my cheeks, and I thought of

The Day After Tomorrow, resolving to turn up

The heater when I got home, this was

A day for nothing.

So what did he see, while not looking?

He stood there in the middle of the crosswalk,

(And I don’t think it was suicide)

 He stood there staring through his lens,

At the lights in the grey fog

(It was so grey; even the red didn’t show afterwards).

It happened just on the street corner,

You can still see the stain…oh,

It looks like the rain started up,

Anyway…

I went and stood there after, thinking to look for

What he’d seen, and I saw a patch of light,

Only for a second.

It shone off the street and bounced off a tree,

Pitter-patter, was all around me, and I saw diamonds

Falling off the leaves,

With heaven’s light shining off the stems.

Rain crawled into my eyes, I pushed it down.

And then it hit me in the back of my head.

I have known no more.

For Those Days When You Just Run Out of Time and Need a Quick Cop Out-

I’m blocked, I’m shocked, I cannot find my rhyme,

I’ve sat all day and not thought up a word,

not even a couplet to pass the time,

and now I’m sitting here spitting out this turd.

A sonnet about writing a sonnet?

Please, there’s more creativity in a

child’s finger painted prairie bonnet,

drawn in class for “Know the Pioneers Day”.

Forget about it, I'm all blocked and stopped,

there’s no good reason to go on reading,

but if you’ve read this far and haven’t dropped

my poetic wordy dirty dealing,

         then read, relax, finish out this line

         and do not wish back your two minutes time