The keyboard clacking makes its sounds,
Its subtle tones, its dexterous rounds –
Piano of another form,
Its own played melodies new-born
With every sentence, every word,
Every letter, read so heard,
And these together bringing thoughts
That fly through air, untie its knots –
Some stinging sharp in quiet tones,
Some staccato, some deep-yearned moans,
But all forming as one their score
Of prose or poem, fact or lore –
Making the piece that is the whole,
That is the storied-music soul.
Monthly Archives: June 2013
The keyboard clacking makes its sounds,
A couple simple lines sewn through,
Brought forth together to signs new,
And placed beside their other shapes
To make their pattern – as though drapes
With lace are they, fluttering strong,
Reflecting breezes like a song,
And when pulled back revealing day
And night and scenes where each would lay,
And through these views revealing both
The revealed and revealer’s oath,
In all their ancient lace-line forms –
These simple, complex letters sworn
Through things intrinsic, things beyond,
To show the world, to keep its bond.
The blade of grass stands still and tall,
Alive among his fellows all,
Growing slightly each moment,
Though never changing, never meant
To shock or wallop with disquiet
Passersby who calmly eye it
And let it fill them for a slight
Instant of time that must be right –
That must be true and must be calm,
That must be soothed with gentle balm.
This point of time hidden but there,
Close-knit among the clearest air
With sights, with dreams, with feelings caught
From the grass blade and all it taught,
And all its fellows taught as well –
The silent, growing hopes they tell.
The dull gray walls towered again,
Blocking the green, the path, the friend,
With their mechanical, complex,
Confusing face of forms to vex.
And the man sat among the gray,
Letting it numb him far away
From the green days, which soon had fled
To their own youthful flowered bed –
Those days with hues like jesters’ caps,
That clustered lost on useless maps,
Those days that had once seemed much more,
Evaporated ere they poured.
“But this is how it is,” he said,
Glancing back at days once led,
Absentmindedly at first,
Until he was caught by a verse –
A verse of the days lost and gone,
A verse of the days trudged upon,
A verse that was but silly too,
Yet still that froze him, old and new.
And he felt the verse catch those days,
And lift them in its secret ways,
So that he saw them between walls,
And between gray – this green that calls.
He had noticed it not before –
These past notes, how they made the score,
But now he did, and now the dull,
Gray barriers bowed for a spell.
The wind blew him then, with deep air
Newly freed in soaring care,
And the man looked, so he could see
The landscape saved for him to be.
Here are the puns I tweeted during the past week.
If Voltaire wrote a law textbook, would it be called Can-Deed?
What instrument did the cobbler play in the band? Shoehorn.
Are upbeat words like ‘happy’ and ‘glad’ allowed to be used in ‘cross’word puzzles?
“Did you see the name card of the girl sitting next to you?” asked Andy excitedly as he and Cory walked down the hall.
“No,” answered Cory absentmindedly.
“Topanga.” Andy smiled as he spoke. “Like on that show, Boy Meets World.”
Cory furrowed his brow. “Never saw it.”
“Really? It’s about a kid named Cory, and he falls in love with a girl named Topanga. Just like you.”
“Come on,” said Cory dismissively, not sure whether or not Andy was kidding.
“Your Topanga even looks a little like the character on the show. You do too, come to think of it. Oh, I wish my name was Shawn right now. Anyway, you need to talk to her next class. Her name’s the perfect conversation starter.”
“I don’t know. She seemed kind of annoying.”
“Oh, everyone always seems kind of something to you,” said Andy. “Anyway, Cory didn’t like Topanga at first on the show either.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” said Cory, but he saw that Andy was still smiling, and something about it was a little unnerving.
The next day Cory arrived at class early, but he saw that Andy and the girl were already there anyway, sitting one seat apart. He dropped his shoulders and gave Andy an angry glance as he walked toward the open seat. Then he resignedly sat down.
“Talk to her,” whispered Andy after a moment. “Come on.”
Cory shook his head. “She’s probably never seen the show either.”
“Her name’s Topanga – I’m sure she’s seen it.”
“Sorry, did someone say my name,” asked the girl politely.
“His name’s Cory,” said Andy, pointing happily.
Topanga smiled brightly, so that her face was very different from what it had just been. “I’ve never met a Cory before. Always wanted to.”
“I’ve never seen the show,” said Cory shortly, and he tried to look away. But as he did he found himself imagining the girl’s face, and how warmly it had smiled, and how it was probably frowning now, and so he looked back toward her, and he thought that maybe she wasn’t annoying after all.
“I’m sure it’s a very good show though,” he added.
The boy hung up the calendar anew,
The beautiful, blank, clean and hopeful view,
Like newly-fallen snow upon the ground
Hardened by winter but now newly crowned.
And now it’s hung he stares a moment glad
At all the days, at all immune from bad,
From sadness, from gray and from cruelty,
From hard waves fire-lashing at their sea.
He touches then the pages still to come
In the calendar thick and full and young,
And smiles at them, smiles at the world,
At how all it will finally do is twirl
And dance and sing and laugh and talk and be,
Its locksmith finally shaping new its key.
Because he saw them all, smiling and warm
Through the coldness of the winter’s morn
Moments ago, so that he felt them still,
Singing one to another, free in will –
Auld lang syne, let the best go by again,
Around, around, in circles birthed as kin.
Then in a moment, or maybe a few,
The calendar flipped rapidly all through
And its marks, wrinkles, frowns and tears returned,
Mixed with the good – sustenance warm but burned –
Until again it reached its thinning end,
Its threshold to the past’s encompassed pen.
So the boy hung the next year’s calendar
And gently heard its untouched pages stir,
And thought the thoughts he’d thought a year before,
But thought them stronger, fuller, deeper, more.