Boom box boy
bouncing to the smoke pit
announcing your existence-
loudly.
Stride on
Caught in a lost decade
I’m grateful as that music fades.
poem-right for you May 18, 2019
For Linda, and those Fluevog Heidi boots… 🙂
.
Never felt right for me.
Sloppy here
Too tight there
Almost like they just weren’t meant to be.
Then you came along
singing those songs
inspiring me.
You made me laugh
A rough task when my brain is broken.
When we had a chance to meet
Your floral feet put right next to mine
The sky lit with possibility of
A perfect fit.
Almost as if I’d been meant to keep them safe for you
Almost as if they were waiting.
I’m waving those babies good-bye as you drive down the street.
I’m elated we had a chance to meet,
’cause those boots were plainly meant for your feet.
They’re meant for dancing to the beat
stomping on bad days,
striding places
where I was never going to take them.
I know it’s absolutely true:
Those boots were meant for you.
poem- box of stars December 18, 2014
I open
an innocuous box
to find a starry sky,
music for the spheres,
time travel.
I open
an innocuous box
to find sparkling stars
that make me smile
remembering.
.
.
.
and since the box contained the 25th Anniversary edition of The Interstellar Suite in Surround Sound (among many other lovely things), I should probably include a link to a 25 year old event that inspired a scene in Grace Awakening, shouldn’t I? (Thanks Arlene for that awesome sparkly sky paper!)
poem- belated gifts December 13, 2014
I heard you sent it
and it makes me smile
to know my mail box
will receive a gift
from the past.
When it arrives
I will float back in time,
swim in memories for a while,
then break the surface
to be thankful
for now.
video- likes authors October 26, 2014
Here’s a Moxy Früvous performance for those spouses whose loved ones always have a nose between pages…
.
.
poem- night music August 25, 2014
I was the lone
talentless one
in a room of musicians.
As each took his place,
at his instrument
I turned on the cassette
recorder, determined
to capture the moment.
I collapsed onto
the couch, in
blurry eyed reverie
as the music tangled
in my brain, filled the
basement, bounced
off the ceiling tiles.
The pianist glanced
into my starry eyes
and grinned.
The others teased
between their strings,
but words fell away
in the fog of my euphoria.
His lips curled upwards
on one side
as his eyes twinkled at mine.
When he packed to go
I rewound the tape.
I heard the
mangled mess of a
damaged tape.
Devastated, I
blinked through
tearful eyes.
Everyone laughed,
but he draped an
arm around my shoulders
and guided me up the stairs.
As his ride arrived
he whispered,
“Don’t worry.
I’ll make you
more music.”
And
he
did.
.
.
.
(Is it any wonder I wrote a book about this? lol Tonight, I had a flashback. Thought I’d share.)
poem-lake music August 17, 2014
A Salmon Arm Roots & Blues Festival poem
.
They’re dancing at the main stage
Melodies entwining in their hair
Pulses beating with the rhythm
of the musicians everywhere.
geek joke July 10, 2014
Bwa ha ha ha ha! This totally cracks me up! (Having played a theremin, and all)
If this doesn’t make sense to you, here is theremin virtuoso Clara Rockmore in action:
poem- time travelling July 6, 2014
For my eighteenth birthday
He wrote me a song.
Flutes and strings danced
in my honour,
a musical farewell,
recorded on cassette.
I filled the rest of the tape
with a treasury of captured moments:
His playing, my laughter,
melancholy dreams.
All synthesized on
The Lost Tape.
.
Years of wondering where it went.
.
Today. My birthday
I picked up an empty cassette case,
and it was not empty.
The case showed my face,
listed harp tunes by me, but inside
not me:
Ancient history.
A birthday present
from eighteen year old me
to middle-aged me,
magnetic taped
memories,
for time-travelling.
..
.
I feel inclined to add a photo, which I probably will remove later, so enjoy it while it’s here. The composer of the song, compiler of the cassette, my grad escort. Me at 18. (I had just been swimming, excuse the hair). 😉
poem-darkness June 23, 2014
The porch swing rocks
beneath a speckled sky.
Mosquito hums fill the air;
black wings swoop overhead
in invisible rustlings,
swallowing music.
Shawn L. Bird 