(His putrid, pungent odor)

His putrid, pungent odor
soured the symphony show
for me.

Magic in the Making

The first time

I remember hearing live jazz

was in college at the

visiting writers series events.

A trio opened each evening

with a set on the theatre stage

to warm up the audience

for the featured

poets and authors

reading that night.

Sure, I had

heard of jazz

and marveled at the

magical moments

when a jazz club

was included

in episodes of

The Cosby Show

when I was a kid.

But when I first

experienced it live,

there was an

internal stirring

and connection

to the combo's

collaboration and camaraderie.

I was glad to be

in the same room

with the magic making

and the makers of the magic.

(Music never)

Music never

lets me

down.

How I Roll

In the same hour,

I listened to a jazz album

recorded in 1924

and pre-ordered the debut record

of an indie pop artist

dropping on Aug. 2 of this year.

(I’m listening to)

I'm listening to

a harpist's album on my

way to a ska show.

Happily Thirsty

I tip the cornucopia of

sound to my mouth

and drink the music

in sonic swallows,

savoring every sip

and drip and greedy gulp,

knowing that I will

never get enough;

grinning all the more,

grateful that the sounds

abound and multiply galore.

I will never get my fill.

That is not a problem,

however, but, rather,

a good old-fashioned thrill.

For What It’s Worth

When a musician dies,

I read their obit,

buy one of their records,

and study their story.

I want to honor their life

and their work,

their life's work

and their life's worth.

(listening to a song you wrote)

listening to a song you wrote

while driving around in the town

where we met

(My spouse fills our house)

My spouse fills our house
with the scents and sounds of home --
homemade sourdough bread and Tina Turner tunes.

Christmas Time

Spices and glitter mix and mingle
with cozy, jolly food and folks
as carols and choruses jingle
in rooms full of stories and jokes.

(I remain rich)

I remain rich
as long as I am surrounded by
books, music and art.

Dear Whippoorwill Willy

If I had wanted to be serenaded by your
domineering whistle during my lunch hour --
with your fortissimo flourishes and fanciful finesse,
your boisterous bellows and troubling treble --
I would have specifically requested a private performance or
purchased your spirited show on CD or DVD or
attended a rousing public recital or
elected to allow you to commandeer my ears,
my mental respite and my personal space.
I would not have sat down in the corner of a public cafeteria
with a book and a meal alone, hoping for a bit of solitude
in the middle of a hectic, harried day.

To Have and to Hold

Note: You can see the prequel to this poem, "A Johnnie for John," here.

If I can't hold a record or a book in my hands,
it doesn't seem quite real.
It's virtually invisible --
seemingly nonexistent.
While I can appreciate
facets of the digital world,
I want to hold art
in my hands.
I want to touch it.
I want to experience it
in a tangible way.
I want to own a piece
of the magic.
I want to commit to it,
like a partner,
like a spouse.
No cheap fling for me.
Nothing to consume quickly and
walk away from easily.
I want to invest in it.
I want it to mean something.
I want to connect to it
physically and emotionally.
I want to see it,
touch it with my fingers,
and hold it in the palms of my hands.
I want to engage with it.
I want to spend time with it.
I want to spread it out on the table
and study every inch of it.
I want to join myself
to the force of life and love
that created it.

A Johnnie for John

Update: You can read the sequel to this poem, "To Have and to Hold," here.

Downloading a song
is like
sleeping with a prostitute.
It's cold and impersonal --
merely a transaction,
a commercial exchange.
As a john,
you don't care about
her story or her history.
You don't care to
get to know
her parents or her siblings.
You don't care about
her goals or aspirations
or what she stands for.
You don't care about
her heart and soul.
You don't care
about her at all.
You just want
to get what you want from her
and go home.
You want to take her
quickly and cheaply
and move on,
with no regard
for her value or worth
as a unique creation
birthed out of love and affection,
with a heritage and a heartbeat.
You're just looking for a
Johnnie-on-the-spot.
You're just looking
for a play.

(tomato ballad:)

Although I did not claim a prize in this year's Tomato Haiku Contest, I enjoyed creating entries like this:

tomato ballad:
rejected from fruit salad
rosy to pallid

(Banned from the fruit bowl,)

Although I did not claim a prize in this year's Tomato Haiku Contest, I enjoyed creating entries like this:

Banned from the fruit bowl,
Music City heartbreak fuels
new material

Days Like These

It's taken me 16 years
to play this record again.
I didn't dare
to play it before
because I was afraid
of how much
it might hurt.

I selected it --
like a curator --
18 years ago
in the dark
on an adrenaline high.
I dashed out of
my roommate's room
and quickly -- but thoughtfully --
handpicked the album.
You were waiting for me
in the recently vacated room
and I wanted to be prepared
for what I hoped might happen --
what did happen,
thanks to Robert Deeble --
that and the months of
heavy make-out sessions
that led up to that day.
I was so high
on endorphins and young love
that night
that I didn't even care
that my body was
temporarily dyed blue
by my roommate's
deflowered futon.

Today, I play
the disc without pain,
thankfully; surprisingly --
except for the ache
that resides deep
in the corner closet
of my heart
that wonders what
may have happened --
and how different my life
might have been --
had we been allowed
to fully fall in love.

(ban on "bored" meetings)

ban on "bored" meetings:
espresso, shortbread cookies;
jazz records on low

Universe or Bust

I feel like
there are a million
helium balloons
inside of me
waiting to be released
into the world --
stories and statements,
ideas and innovations,
poems and proclamations.
They bounce against
the ceiling of my
heart and mind,
each bulging, beckoning and begging
to be next in line
to launch into legacy;
my life's legendry.

While Listening to Julie Lee's "The Other Half"

Which version do you like best?

(original version)

I got chills
when I heard
your voice.
And then my eyes
began to water.
A tiny firework
went off
in my heart.
And then
the muted trumpet
came in.
I closed my eyes
and got lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(alternate version)

The sparse
guitar work
set the mood.
I took a deep breath.
And then
the muted trumpet
came in.
I got chills
from my shoulders
to my ankles
when I heard your voice.
My eyes
began to water
and a tiny
firework
exploded somewhere
in my chest.
I shook my head,
closed my eyes
and got lost.

You can check out Julie Lee's music here.