November 3, 2014
The plague
I’ve been down with a plague of sorts – Bronchitis and the flu, fun stuff.
The death of my brother and a continued concentration on music – the poetry has suffered greatly.
Now I’ve been reminded that I haven’t posted in a while and I am better for the reminder as I need this reminder to live on my doorstep and ring the bell occasionally. Perhaps something new will happen that isn’t heart wrenching or energy draining. Perhaps I shall eat all the leftover Halloween candy and find this lost energy and slip into the manic side of my personality defects. In the meantime I’ve lubricated my old trumpet to have as a backup for a show I’m suppose to be playing the next two weekends should my Yamaha horn fail me or fall on the steps I am to climb. I’ve already missed opening weekend which made the director scramble for a last minute replacement that played air trumpet to a midi – file recording of my part. I’m sure live it would sound better or worse – I haven’t practiced it with the accompaniment – only solo and am sure that I’ve jazzed it up beyond what is called for. But how badly can one screw up – “Singing in the Rain” – surely not as bad as one can screw up something with more than six notes. I suppose there is an F# in there but it is not being played for this particular application of rain singing.
in a moment we become only photographs
visions in fading memories
April 18, 2014
poem
the obvious end
death
and the mystery of it.
love is a chemical thing,
there is only mystery for the uninformed.
but
still I love
and soon will die;
the poetry of death is inexhaustible.
the poetry of flowers and birds is equally inexhaustible.
and when it rains everyone writes poetry about the rains.
but
we still think of a rising sun
a setting sun
in ignorance that it is the earth
that rotates on an invisible axis.
that we are always in motion,
balancing with the flat of out feet,
sometimes on our knees.
– Hoc Scripsi
September 9, 2013
we are the lucky ones
– in part for Richard Dawkins
I don’t enjoy needed tears of rejuvenation
or the venerability of emotional transendance
the heart pumps
from ventricle to ventricle
through fifty miles of capillaries
blood that offers life
and one day must stop cold
and we are the lucky ones
so said
for we are here when so many
never were
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 