Tag Archives: music

Dream Cycle: 11-6

I wake her from her dream.

Still hazy, she scribbles her visions in pen on a yellow legal tablet.

Tablets, like Moses, brought down from heaven.

Tablets, holy words, for us to sing.

 

Wiping the sleep from her eyes,

she sings with heaven still roaring in her ears.

Distorted and warm guitars cocoon her voice,

make her visions free from sin.

 

A light is in her eyes.

A sly, and joyous smile on her lips.

She sees a place promised in holy visions,

in the cutting, bitter words of prophets.

 

She lays down to sleep.

Dream cycle 4-6. Last song at sunrise.

God is close in cold nights, whispering.

We’ll wake her at first light, to hear Him.

 

Prophetess, talons in prayers,

time, time, time, and embracing thunder.

Buried words go in through the pores, not ears.

Saving them from sin if only half heard.

 

One last revelation, and soft kiss,

watching her troubled peace on a vinyl couch.

Heaven comes in snatches as we float to the ceiling.

Prophetess, our soul, my platonic knight errant.

 

A soft kiss on her brow, she sighs.

Eyes closed, automatic writings, writes her visions.

Half heard, like angels laughing, under soothing cacophony,

she will sing heaven into this world.

Tanya Was Dreaming

Tanya was dreaming, halfway to heaven and the stars,
and she comes down now, shaken awake,
and writes the words of her soft visions.
The music Matthew plays, on the little 4-track,
through the cheap headphones, still whispers
those angel voices in her ears, heard in the sky.
The night is warm, and gives rest now,
as she writes the words, and sings them for him,
the marriage that comes from their marriage.
Her voice clear as rain, warm as the stars,
along with the enveloping tones, the soft wings,
flight for a restless mind.
Tanya and Matthew cuddle on the couch now,
his arms around her as if in prayer, as if in thanks,
and together they dream in the sky.

Something To Hang Upon A Star

She plays the drums, lost in it,
simpatico beats, joyous racket.

Working all the energy of love,
scent of her lover in a gift jacket.

Maybe write songs, like as a girl.
Maybe her lover plays guitar.

Something shared in creation,
something to hang upon a star.

 

Clear, no bad thoughts, fears.
Just the rhythm, just the noise.

Not worrying about grace,
or that perfect model poise.

Hum of flow, just this thing.
Just this girlhood past time.

No pleasing fanged men,
whose temper turn on a dime.

 

Thunder rolls out in the sea.
Salty air in this hotel suite.

She stops her drum playing,
thinks of a perfect day in Crete.

Her and her lover, just young,
almost normal, almost ordinary.

Photoshoot soon, model glamour.
All this light and magic to carry.

 

“I Rightly Turn Away”

Milwaukee skating rink, on a snowy night right before Christmas.

I don’t want to go home to family that are strangers who don’t,

and cannot, are just unwilling to understand what I’m feeling, going through.

I want to stay in this dark place, heated to discomfort, but enveloping,

and the candy lights dancing in shadows, as all these kids, all these young people,

are free and easy, not knowing what is coming for them.

On a stage, a petite brunette, her frayed hair up in a ponytail, closes her eyes,

and sings about how “No boy, I will not love you”, “I rightly turn away”,

the music sharp and electronic, and soft and warm as a new lover’s kisses.

Kids, teenagers, young smart ass punks, poet and dreamers, and death worshippers,

all dancing and holding hands and dreaming of that one true love, or the one that

broke their hearts, or some better sunny future down in Hollywood.

The highs of youth, on free and fearless love, or the stars whispering in your ears,

falls away so quickly, leaving ashes and regrets and need to sleep mornings away.

It is warm hear, and none talks to me, so I won’t feel alone when they will not listen.

I was like these kids once, but death came close, and fear and so much pain.

I cannot end the scars and wreckage, and none of those asshole can reach out honestly.

That petite brunette locks eyes with me, and I smile, and in the dark I see her smile back.

The candied lights and all the pure dreams and all the things I can almost reach in her,

call back another girl, another song, another dream, and a lost and ruined life.


Gentle Monster

The thunder of the music in her ears.

As it roars her head finally, finally clears.

She’s come so far. She’s come so far.

Still playing her favorite teal guitar.

Dark of the club, not even a light show.

If she were to cry, the cheering wouldn’t know.

No longer smoke filled places, like in her youth.

Even if he was here, they wouldn’t sneak a smoke on the roof.

The crashed car. The headlight pointing to the black air.

Crying, wiping the blood from his face with her long hair.

The black stained red, a veil that he passed through.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Our world isn’t through!”

And the music is a lulling dragon whose fire is cool.

In it’s teeth the peace of her voice can finally rule.

His ashes and his grave spun into a melancholy thread.

If she still loves him, still feels him near, he isn’t dead.

And the ringing in her ears, the thumping in her breast,

this gentle monster still the exorcist that soothes the best.

And still her teal guitar, that she bought when he bought his own,

still bright in this dark place, still the devoted weight, tender millstone.

Sound and Thunder

Caroline lays upon the couch, eyes closed,

the wall of warm noise in her headphones.

It’s night, and the stars and the city shines.

Alone, the music embraces, soothes, quiets her.

Overlapping guitars and that angel voice,

that mournful woman, haunted and holy.

A cocoon of sound and thunder, the words

half heard and wholly felt, taking her to the sky.

The night is warm, her heart is full of love,

and she dreams again, for the first time in so long.

That mournful woman, calling back something lost,

but maybe in calling it back, it can be made whole again.

Maybe Caroline can be whole again.

First Light

First light, parking on the street before heading in to work.
I sit in the car for a little while longer, in the watery light,
as Anna Netrebko sings “Casta Diva”, and brings enchantment
to this run down place, with the shadows making houses palaces.
 I listen to her sing, letting the still and quiet and dim light
soothe me, and give me strength, and even a measure of hope
as I feel my world slipping away from me, the whole universe
going mad. I close my eyes, and make the music infinite.
 The song is over, and it’s time to turn of the radio, and grab
my knapsack, and head in to work. To put on that brave, happy
face and not let the fear and lonliness show, just smile through.
It’s Friday, and soon I can hide in my apartment, and let tears come.

Stars and Angels

Anna Netrebko sings a song to the moon,
as I lay in bed, clean and washed out from
the day just past, letting it all slip from me.
 That sweet, evocative voice ringing in the dark,
as I fill my ceiling with every star and angel,
every sweet thing still holding on within me.
 The moon I can’t see out my window, the loss
of the wonder I had as an innocent child, I find
a little piece of it still shimmering in her voice.
 And, as I slip away to the darkness, to sleep,
I know the longing of the rusalka for her lover,
for the one alway desired, that’d make us whole.
 Stars and angels become diving galaxies, and longed
for lovers call our names and welcome us home forever,
as sleep puts it’s kisses on our eyes, on all that is good.

Her Hands

I’d kiss her hands, so soft, warm and nimble,
that stroke and bend the strings so easily,
that make those sounds that fill the sleepless night
with it’s only sense of peace.
Those hands, small, thin and perfect,
those hands that will never touch me
yet reach out form the radio, from the distance,
to call up the songs of the dead.
If I could hold one of her hands in mine,
caress them softly with my own fingertips,
and lavish them with affection and worship
to show my gratitude, my thankfulness.
From a far off place, New York or Chicago,
she plays her music upon a stage.
The radio calls it out into the night.
Those hands play, giving me my only peace.