| Profil de T.M. WattsTMW's SpacePhotosBlogListes |  Outils  Aide |
|
juillet 2006 Madien VoyageI was only in high school. We approached the café— Three seasoned friends and a wannabe musician. A corps of discovery, Descending the narrow stairway, Into the basement housing the Tralfamadore. Man with a Mickey Mouse watch and two straps around his neck Sits at the bar. His saxes in the offing, at the fore of the house. Landing at a round table, front row, center stage, I immersed, mixing into the background. Stage set alight, shadowing the room as The band wordlessly boards the stage. Spacious piano chords launch toward the autumn moon, Buoyed by the bowing of the spruce double bass. Hints of a Herbie Hancock tune. The tenor sax unfurls a gusty modulation. Timbre of his aged Selmer drifts through the room— Whole notes blow full and resonate. A wall of sound hurling toward the novitiate’s face. Soloists depart, glide, swing, thunder, syncopated strains, streaming Chords, surging, notes running, swirling, Then returning to the blustery legato theme. A quarter hour, or more, the notes wailed A language, which we cannot speak Is heard, and, sometimes its meaning unfurled, Sailing vicariously through the tenor’s reed. juillet 2006 Rail SongBefore we roll from Gunnersbury, a voice is heard.
Camouflage, jackboots, shorts and vest of leather,
and a flute—playing high, and terse.
Through the brief stop at Turnham Green,
three unhearing teens chatter, mock, and giggle, pretending
to ignore when he, again, barks his plea.
Timbre shrill, the tin whistle chirps on.
Heading to Stamford Brook, the melody goes soft,
sad; his polyrhythms challenge the rails’ da-dom.
Buzz-cut hair. Stoic face. Playing faster, as
Ravenscourt Park, and his notes, flew past;
streaming towards Kensington West.
No applause as he finished his tune.
“Thank you,” he barked; smiled;
and leapt from the Tube. juin 2006 Victory Avenue One, April.
First stop, Fort Niagara—close to home.
A vestige of the French and Indian war,
Where, until recently, tourists viewed quaint battlements of dirt and stone.
On to North Atlantic’s nauseating waves,
tracing, in reverse, the voyage of ancestors, unknown.
I pray, worried about, Mom, Ralph, and Anna Mae.
Land Belfast. Sojourn in Colrhine—
cute girls, Blarney Stone.
Six, June.
Mixed emotions in South Hampton, as
the others left, in the first wave.
Arriving a week later—replacement cogs.
Not daring to show it, but afraid.
The Fighting 29th, Stonewallers,
Company L, code name Lagoon.
Thirteen, July.
Most of the night surrounded in fight.
Hundred and eight of our guys dead,
For a five-acre orchard, a few hundred yards closer to
St Lô, Perey, St Germain, Vire…
Right next to me,
Lieutenant Morehouse—dead.
“Why not me” I pray.
Twelve, September.
Laying communication lines within miles of Brest,
When that damn shell burst, somewhere,
Somehow finding, shattering, my right thigh.
Lying in the mud, waiting all night.
Luckier than the others.
I’ll pray for them each night.
Another world: Bristol, Purple ribbon,
South Atlantic voyage,
slowly, finally
Home. avril 2006 Maybe you're not crazyIt is true, The stars do align. I’ve felt it ― Fleeting though it was. Sadly, few ever notice. We’ll deny, and demur, As most of us are resigned ― Knowing miracles don’t occur But, we do all have a day, Or moment, however brief. It’s OK if no one else can see. Because, what would be the fun If others saw your epiphany? avril 2006 How come?One piece of the puzzle. Still, does not ease the pain. No closure. Imbalanced. His one-sided anger. He got angry. Closed off. She’s never hated him. For them is friendship dead, Or, mortally wounded? From her perspective, no. A painful void, perhaps. Same heartfelt connection. Same native compassion Yet, his behavior changed. No empathy; no joy. Just unrequited pain. |
|
|
