Friday, January 02, 2009

don't know what to do with this

deep wells

of deep rivers

with muddy bottoms

and cotton


sooty past

running through

creekbeds and river sides

into concrete oasis

yet the sand stings feet

the blast of obliterated sound

the slapping of cheeks

the pounding of feet

the gnashing of teeth


and then,

a pause


the page turns

and I see color

Rest in the key of "Promises" (dedicated to Barack Obama)

slips inside
the tuba

quiet casts a brassy glow
upon the shadowy saxophone

the french horn and clarinet

accompanied by
the hollow throat
of acoustic breath

and the night belts out what magic is left behind, and returns the breath
to its proper rest

the prayer without words of
empty eyes
full of the moment

Can't you hear it?
the baited still of
a willing will

fog falling freshly
as white on
into early morning's ears

sweet as a lover's mouth
dancing with praise?

and then;

as with in the beginning
was the word
and the word was with
the director
speaking in sounds that created space and time
a universal pause, followed by a lifted voice
in place of a hand

and everything that has breath stands still

-- harmony in the
key of f