|Jim Edwards, Composition in Blues|
I am looking at the horn, not from abandoned delight or quiver.
Could have been the blue as it caught me right up front,
Maybe just the simplicity – is this a cardboard stunt?
That little thing we often refer to that lives in you – me,
Way down- tests you to look! Stop! See!
Screaming – take me, take me.
When you play your soul from a piece of brass
You share your heart be it bop or jazz -
When your carriage rises to the blow from you
The victors are shared by all –what is his follow through?
Reflections on curling his sleeves-- just so,
Bucks or saddles “stand your collar”-- You want to go?
Milano’s, a second street jam, a Sunday treat.
He was 15 –He never missed a beat.
As the blues penetrated his being, he got his game.
I recall when I asked him what tunes to blame.
“Want to’ bring some passion to the session,
What is the vinyl choice, brother?”
Would you imagine Herb Albert or pick another?
He blew his horn and blew it well
The equalizer -- the music, not fear of hell.
He grew with a pucker mark on his lip.
He grew, he become-he left the pip.
My brother blew a horn and blew it well.
His heart never put away that gel,
He quit blowing -- arranged his music surround,
Protecting from his Langley den, underground.
|Mary Ellen Strack, Into the Allerton|
For the anniversary of your husband’s death we drove
not to a church, but to all the roads we could think of
where trees canopied the pavement like naves.
Our trek through foliaged tunnels, highlighted by day
glittering through leaves.
We shared a love of nature and treasures hidden
in plain sight, strived not to miss the rapture or roar
of life – a host of 22 Fu dogs lined a garden
concealed by cornfields and farms; knobby apples,
sculptures hung on an installation of tangled arms.
Now seven years since your spouse suddenly died
I am in mourning for you dear, sweet friend.
A Caledonian forest fills the glades in my head
when in reality, the giants have almost all been slain to ash.
Your porch sits empty where we once journeyed
on rocking chairs across painted planks,
laughter accented our song of conversation.
You joked that your veranda was a womb, and now
I wonder if we’re always seeking re-entry into sanctuaries such as these.
Death can whittle away even the tallest oak to twig
disturb steadfast bark off-kilter from its trunk.
Somewhere I heard that trees don’t ache or cry
but here today, returning to our cathedral in the woods,
we are all bent over in the most solemn pain and prayer.