For Danielle, with love
.
Breaking heart
Taking future
Making mockery
I doubt the happy start,
wrapped in a painful ending,
rending all I believed,
feeling deceived
by the life we’d conceived.
Paths onward wending,
sending me,
setting me free.
Taking me,
creating me,
letting me
be,
Breaking past,
Taking a stance,
Making me dance.
She shouldn’t care more about you
than you do yourself.
Your success should be on your shoulders
not on hers.
She can guide, support, aid,
but you must do the work,
think the thoughts, stretch your brain,
believe you can.
There is no easy way.
You need to care enough to be your best,
trust the tools and safe venue for risk,
let her cheer from the side,
as she watches you ride
away into your future.
You need to trust, this isn’t a place
to stay.
I only dream
that the first time is the only time
to do something.
I only dream
that no one can find complaint
omission or regret.
I only dream
of polished perfection
in momentary introspection.
I only dream
and roll my eyes
at expectation of perfection
your rejection of infallibility
is nothing to do with me.
A present for her
that’s really for him.
A present for him
that’s really for her.
Who needs a gift, really?
Presence is enough.
So… this is a (parody) Beatnik style spoken word piece. In place of the bongos (or in addition to them) you have to insert an ukulele riff between the lines. I ‘wrote’ this while a student was walking through the halls past my class room, wailing away–heavy metal style–on his ukulele… (We don’t ask why he was soooooo far from the band room. Obviously it was so he could inspire poetry!)
PS. Call it an oo-koo-lay-lay, please, NOT a you-kah-lay-lee.
.
.
The ukuleles are out walkin’
(insert riff)
Rockin’ to the beat
(power chord)
Tropical heat
(power chord)
Seat of pants stalkin’
(riff)
Ukulele tuneful wailin’
to the whales
(riff)
Ukulele layin’ on the vibe
Make us come alive.
(power chord)
It’s a gas, man.
Ukulele laughin’ gas, man
(longer riff)
Listen to what I say,
Take the ukulele way
of peace,
man.
(power chord).
Cuckoo
Ukulele.
(riff)
Groovy, dude.
You were middle aged
when we were twenty-seven,
but we didn’t know.
I feel like I am just beginning,
but you have ended.
I can not get my head around
this unexpected cutting
of a thread that should still be winding
through our tapestry.
The sheets are clean,
fresh outside,
brought in,
crisp newness,
start again.
Wait for you,
to dint the pillow,
breathe deeply in sleep,
inhale promise,
clean sheets.
You’re right,
of course.
The girl’s got skills.
She works a room with flare,
engages crowds confidently.
You want her in your corner,
unless of course,
she reveals your inadequacies,
tramples your manly ideas,
and overwhelms.
The public thinks she’s wonderful.
The contrast between you
crackles. Can you let her go?
Or should you hold her close?
.
.
A poem for a character, as I’m working on Lydian Mode today. Lydia the artist is too capable by half. Poor Dustin. She is not making his world easy.
Fleance dreams of flight,
soaring on outstretching wings
into a moonlit night,
No day trips for him, he’s heard things
about flying too near the sun.
Day is for escape, for climbing,
Peaks ascending, journeys begun,
At sunset (it’s all about the timing)
he leaps into red glowing,
falls on moon rise
spreads his wings, catches winds flowing
embraces skies,
Wonders at all he does espy
and murmurs “Fly, Good Fleance! Fly!”
Wistful
Wishful
A tank of fish full:
silver darting
Red Sea parting.
Make a way;
say your say.
Wistful
wish.
Full.
Shawn L. Bird 