Listening to Debussy
Pedal pedal pedal
The little foot falls fast –
While jazzy hands
Quick shimmy down
The white and blackened street.
Jingle jangle jingle
The town is all awhirl –
A limber man, he waltzes on
And scatters to the air,
He’s caught amid the county fair
Where nothing stock is still.
Now to the dollhouse,
Under-moon,
He stumbles on a tiny room,
Too tired for his head;
And in a thump, or in a boom –
He cannot tell, it’s rather soon,
The milkman’s dancing with a spoon –
The pianist’s gone to bed.
—
The Balloon and the Bumblebee
meandering down the time-beaten path
a little boy stopped to stare
at a round red balloon caught in a tree;
wherefore, he thought, was it there?
the hum of a bumble – a bumbling bee –
cracked wide the yawning blue sky
it FLASHed like the lightning then BOOMed like the thunder
the little boy cried, “oh, my!”
he followed the sound – boy after bee –
until the garden of rose
when, struck by a muse, he sat to the ground
and shrank to a thinking pose.
the meaning of life, the little boy knew,
is really quite simple to see.
to puzzle it out, begin with the small,
like the balloon and the bumblebee.
—
A Note to No One
I wrote a note to no one
but lost it in the breeze
the day before tomorrow
astride the waving Seas.
the inkpot softly tumbled
a dark and deep morass
five thousand words have crumbled
beside the broken glass.
and then the blue-black puddles
should weep in silent song
a pool of poems unspoken:
so long, so long, so long!
so long: a feeble farewell –
since never was I couth
at penning words of good-bye
forsooth, forsooth, forsooth.
the envelope flies lightly
fair child of the seas
jumping clouds with paper trails
(recycle remnants, please).
fast and fast and fastest yet
it flutters by despair
past gloom and glum and errant sum
through salty slipping air.
“dear sir or madam N.O.,
life finds you well this day?
I write to send my sorrow
that you have gone away.
“(to typeset is a bother,
and so I work by hand)
I am
. . . . . . . . yours most sincerely,
Ms. (sandy sandy sand).”
up and up and up and up
then down and down: three downs
let’s jettison the letter, quick,
more verbs! no need for nouns.
quite overboard the man is!
a howl of mutiny!
but, wait, who walked the plank now
into the storming Sea?
the captain of the vessel
hurled back his shaggy head
“of course, there’s been no murder!
for really No One’s dead!”
I wrote a note to no one
and sent it overseas
I am
. . . . . . . . yours most sincerely,
(more postage needed, please).
—
The Mustard Seed
There was a time
(upon which once)
four winds converged
at half-past noon.
How soon, how soon!
How soon they sought
the coordinates
of Babel at its height.
Not long before
they wondered naught
but how to float a kite.
A kite is missing
latitude
and longitude in flat.
What delight, the monstrous flight
of lost and languid thread.
Lost and languid
waltz and swoon
the winds converged
and half-past noon.
Thirty-four by forty-three,
the small recursion lost on thee.
I looked into a book.
But then! but then!
I fell adrift.
the monster’s out at sea.
my mem’ry’s deep
but I’m asleep!
and No One follows me.
Yet No One follows me
until the clock shouts three
and in comes Naught
and sits us down
inviting us to tea.
we three are best of friends.
our favorite teatime topic
(ambrosia to a muse)
we ponder as we gobble
choc’late scones in choc’late shoes
(please pardon all the crumbs):
“if a tree
should tumble down
would its fall
uproot the ground?”
“Of course,” pronounces No One
who dribbles Oolong sap.
“the fall would thunder loudly
if I am there mayhap.”
I laugh aloud
and close the book.
I see that
No One’s read it.
and just a moment after:
the genius in his speech:
he breathes an easy breath
and unto him beseech
all the flowers in their bloom.
And this is all Naught says:
“‘bequeath! bequeath!’
the mustard seed
did cry in half of mirth.
‘the goodly towers of the sky
forgot about the earth.’”
at half past noon
the winds converged
and (so they said and so I heard)
the trees, the ants, the mockingbirds,
danced the waltz
and swooned with schmaltz
we’re still inside the woods.
(where’s the mustard seed?)
—
Shostakovich
they are like
the old cello
worn down by time
and dark mahogany
while I
so softly,
act the violin,
spider-veined and tremulous
as careful notes ring on high
. . . . . . . . high
high.
hyperbole is on the page
that’s open on
the table:
a kitchen dictionary
for lunching
and linguistics.
linguistically and lunchingly
I glide around the corner
to where a clockwork stands
ticking ticking ticking and
tocking past its hands.
a clock
inside the corner,
so old, grandfatherly,
chimes and rhymes
strum-hum, strum-hum
and then the mouse runs down.
down into the rabbit’s hole
to seek out Wonderland,
we speak of tea and writing tables
shriek of sea and fighting fables
till the birthday cake is gone.
half-birthdays bloom like
asterisks
or maybe shooting stars.
sometimes I think
perhaps
you should
shoot for falling stars
so that the sound may sidle in.
burnished cello
(wood of yellow)
somber violin.