The space of Al Capone

Off and on the beat,
on the rocks or neat,
the neon sign stabs

with the musical jabs
of the trio of jazz
playing with pizzazz.
The ivories, they tickle
to a jazz beat, fickle,
soprano or baritone,
in the space of Al Capone.

Sit by the stage,
no matter the age.
Ignore 
or adore
people,
tweeple, sheeple,
musical,
magical, mythical.
Hear it singing;
cymbals ringing:
syncopating hearts,
the metronome’s parts.
No beat’s ever alone
in the space of Al Capone.

The crescendo peaks
and music speaks;
brushes carve a beat
on the rocks or neat.
Among lovers, necking
and hen parties, pecking,
let Byron manifest
as cello seduces chest.
Must beat poets cry
at music so they can try -
Try to keep time:
in arrhythmia, find rhyme?
Brushstrokes on murals reveal
colours of the drummer's peal.
Colours of movie magic
or Shakespearean-ly tragic -
The colours gather tone
in the space of Al Capone.

Autumn's song

Sunshine plays in leaves,

the moon trapped in a tree;

clouds born of drops of dew

and Fall breeze set free.

Youthful days die quick,

peaceful nights are long;

brown sky kisses ground:

it's time for Autumn's song.

Stars, in windows, twinkle,

giants' shadows loom;

time dances dark ballet

and nightly flowers bloom.

Opus noir fades,

a symphony awakes;

softly taking centre stage,

a velvet dawn breaks.

Twilight

The hour is twilight, visited by Lilith:

her wingspan shrouding a darkening sky.

With passion and heart, the cup filleth.

Some seek to root and some to fly.

The breeze bears scents of coming night

like life flying through dusky air.

Creatures and thoughts of dark take flight.

Some seek to be safe, some abandon care.

Unseen lights flicker: a peaceful sky,

while ground to ground, they flare too long.

Fluorescent lives rage unheard; cry.

Some scream, some dream of night's soft song.

Swat

What darkness is it when killing, 
a sense of joy, does contrive?
Is it the dark of soul, willing?
Or dark, the nature to survive?

In undiscovered recesses,
where demons, we do conjure,
we allow such excesses:
excesses that we nurture.

The focus and attention
toward a single extinction
deserves some distinction
as a curious affliction.

Hypocrisy or disease?
One life's end is pain to see
the other simply snuffed with ease.
Disease or hypocrisy?

Violence, begot of fear,
comes from nature, prime.
It absolves the eye a tear;
it absolves the heart a crime.

Soft

What soft heart breaks,

tears asunder, aches;

what weak eyes swell;

what emotions compell

the mind beyond mending

to find it heart-rending -

the death of a pet,

one not even met?

Another's pain to feel -

too soft a heart to heal.

How soft a heart that breaks.

How soft a life it makes.

Sunrise

Sunrise over a city of grime:
the jagged edge of a modern time
breaking the dark of a night-time past.
No new day shall be like the last.
A horizon of razors tears through the sky;
like flakes from a cut, the birds fly
toward their new, unknown day.
The rhythm of survival, their wings play.

Sunrise over a city of dark:
a veil of light covers the stark
truth behind the street-light shadows
where the city's truth grows.
A paint of light to whitewash faces,
corners, curbs and heritage places.
A paint of light to help to pawn
a new born night, noon and dawn.

(Thank you Daisy)

Lunar rouge

Let tempest rise and lightning fly;

let howling wind come wail and cry.

Torn asunder, clouds have bled:

tonight, the full moon will turn red.

No daylight dares to poke and peek

when nightly lights do dance and streak.

The stars will whirl and swoon instead.

Tonight, the full moon will turn red.

Let spirits roam and phantoms free

to rave the night for all to see

and paint their visions in your head.

Tonight, the full moon will turn red.

Let magic song and words be writ.

Undone be history bit by bit.

Tonight's no night to spend in bed.

Tonight, the full moon will turn red.

Be my

Be my walk along the beach;

the silver moon

out of reach

in whose light a cloud can flow.

Be my stare

out a window.

Be my comfy cup of coffee,

piece of cake

or choco cookie.

Be my time of inspiration,

relaxation,

meditation.

Be my Sunday morning, lazy,

clear and bright,

soft and hazy.

Be my sunshine when it pours.

You be mine

and I'll be yours.

Forsooth

No one wins; nobody loses.

The highway of life, one gently cruises

in search of a life. Man knows not where

to look - past strife. That road, the air

holds the very thing

that many a crowned king

have wrestled with themselves

to have and hold. One delves

into the deepest recess,

where the mind denies access

searching for this long-lost truth -

Life's the road less traveled, forsooth.

A shared cigarette

A window, and I serenade you.

By the hand, I will kiss you.

We'll drink and watch the world smoke by

as clouds turn stars turn inky sky.

I'll talk of worlds within your eyes.

You'll talk of a life. Time flies.

In harmony; we'll feel so right.

We'll spend that one amazing night.

When dawn breaks as dreams do

I'll kiss you still and you'll coo.

At the break of light and sunlight bright,

we'll see our paths in plain sight.

There'll be, perhaps, another day:

some point in time and space. They say

that paths meant to cross, must.

Our crossing was of love and lust.