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.

Swiss head

There's a clock in every head,

a steady diet, to be fed.

Without which,

it turns a bitch,

pops up and goes "cuckoo".

Wound tight and ticking away

through brightest night and darkest day,

this clock will brood

and throw a mood,

spring up and go "cuckoo".

There come times of silence

with chemicals in balance.

Stays calm, the clock

with nary a knock

until it pops and goes "cuckoo".

Starless night

A bird of white

did alight

under a starless night

in search of food.

None, so rude,

did disturb this sight.

For it was one

among a run

of many on that night

when stars did hide;

did dark collide

with peace and joy's delight.

Far from view,

Horizon knew

the kiss of Sky and Sea.

And well in sight -

one left, one right -

the footprints came to be

of wanderers;

of wonderers,

who came to hear and see

the sight so rare;

the mark so fair:

the footprints of the sea.

The tide then rose

to kiss the toes

of Sky who deigned to glance

at all of those,

that night, who chose

to go and take a chance.

Thoughts did flow

and words did glow

in fair poetic dance.

The endless sea

gave energy

to City's mad romance.

1

There was a time I walked on water's face;
I since have given up omnipotence.
I've watched the sky and sea in dear embrace
and watched as Atlas placed: the timeless fence.

Hearts still draw like lonely ghosts out there:
the place where time extends beyond the morn.
They come to meet and in that meeting, share
a moment, true and pure. The smiles adorn
a glow that brings the sunshine out in rain:
as if to sanction love with warmth and light.
A moment stolen from their daily strain;
a moment when their fancies can take flight.
'tis in that special time that I can see
the happiness that, can, the human heart.
And not all pain and sorrow needs to be -
these moments too, of life, become a part.

Like once before, emerging from a box
perhaps old Hope will Atlas from his place;
perhaps I'll find a box that's blue and rocks;
perhaps one day I'll walk on water's face.

Unto another field

With a carpet sky and raindrop darkness looming over ground,

put a bit of grass in the clouds and kick a ball around.

If sunshine beams are veiled and watered to a withering ghost,

place two bolts of lightning, square, and make a goal post.

When hazy days enhance the ways in which to be lazy,

go run wildly through the skies; kick up a storm, crazy.

 - Inspired by a line from "Postcards from Bardoli", written by Ramu Ramanathan

A word on a bird

There was a little bird who coo'd a little coo.
She looked at  a thing and said, I can do this too.
Her motives were pure,
her footing was sure.
And so, she began, without much a do.

Her passion and her love became her drive;
her choice was never settle, always strive.
With talent and with flair,
over bump and scare
her path became the form that she did contrive.

A tin-man and a lion; a hatter and a hare:
Friends came her way for whom she came to care.
The yellow brick road,
together, they strode,
forming an ensemble rather rare.

The little bird grew to be quite unique.
Along with her mind, grew her mystique.
And so the ensemble
did trudge and rumble,
all the while, the bird guiding their clique.

Time marches on with a sure and steady pace.
The bird found herself in many a race.
And she won them all;
stood proud and tall;
vanquishing every challenge she would face.

This isn't quite where the story ends
for the road is long as it bumps and bends.
Consider it good luck
if in your life amuck
you get to meet this bird and perhaps become friends.

In the darkest night...

Look at the sky.

Though it may cry,

through the cloud,

screaming loud,

there is a star,

with all her power,

that's burning bright.

Though hidden from sight

the darkest night

becomes light

and easier to bear

just knowing that it's there.

Mightier

Would you quote Shakespeare when in a fight?

Would you use Beckett's words to prove you're right?

Is what you say important in a fit of seething rage?

Can Byron's colours paint on your personal angry page?

Are words from Wordsworth worthy of your ego?

'sit better to throw Wilde than to just wildly throw?

Words, too, in fact can take a form quite terse.

How bloody would war be if we use Lennon's verse?

Perhaps what may work is to sometimes use silence -

The shrug of Chaplin's shoulders always held some poignance -

For the power of a word and just what it can do

perhaps weighed heavy on good ol' Moses too.

Dreams for dinner

Across the bounding ocean and the open sea
are served dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.
Also, an appetizer of trust and a soup of welcome
with a salad garnished with a smile to not seem too solemn.
"Come, ye huddled masses!", cries the Maitre D'
as she offers dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

'tis the land that opens arms to folks of various kind
with the promise of greens of law and drinks of peace of mind.
They come from far and wide like ants to a sugar mound,
hearing stories of those before them - how sweet they made it sound.
The meat of money and the gravy mix of justice and liberty
are in the plate of dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

They drink the wine of wealth that makes a millionaire
or eat the bread of a taxi cab with equal lack of care.
They bring a piece of herb or spice and blend it in the sauce
to remind them of a piece of home and make lemonade from loss.
They've come for a reason: make life all it can be -
They love their dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

No meal can be called complete without a touch of sweet.
A day-long life, too, must end with a little happy treat.
A pudding made of cream and eggs and the soft flour of choice,
with a cherry added on the top, of the promise of a voice,
soothes them to a sleep, secure, in the inn of democracy,
after eating dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

Midnight pass

There's a haze in the air. 

Gloria's in my hand; it's been a while. 

Floyd's pink guitar 

playing in his inimitable style.

The madness mellows

the world isn't shining in its morning glory.

Even the spin slows

as every teller slowly spins a story.

All the world's a-playin'

and every bit character's a stage

with lines to be sayin'.

Every lit window's another page.

A time when alcohol

has, every sin of nicotine, negated

and conversation is all

about pathology 'tween creator and created.

In the light

of screen-savoured glowing prisms

we delight

in spanish, french and euro rhythms.

Spanish strings

in the background; talk of twinkles from a window.

And of horns and wings

and traditions of people who up and go.

All kinds of carols roll

as they pass in the midnight's mass.

We awake and cajole

a sunny rock-n-roll Christmas.

What I felt the world needs

When air about

is one of doubt,

anger, hate,

and hollow debate;

when all around

distaste is found

and dejection and disaster

make cynicism grow faster;

when a shadow, so dark, its head rears

and the soul does tremble as it fears

that the only message one wishes to send

is for this filthy world to end

let's give thanks.

Let's give thanks

for the fact that birds still fly;

that grass is green under a somewhat blue sky;

for the fact that music lives

still and our hearts, some hope, gives;

for the tender smile

that we see once in a while

in a passing stranger

without any danger;

for the life we gave a child

who's still so innocent and mild

she weeps as the last flower falls

and is overjoyed at the koel's calls;

for the fact that we still see beauty

in an actor's performance of his duty;

for the joy in that bounding greeting

the street dog shows in the everyday meeting;

for the wonderful part

played by wonderful art

in our lives

and in our hives;

for the invention of the pop-tart;

for the late morning's sleepy start;

for chocolate and coffee;

for wine and whiskey;

for an evening's gentle rain;

for good ol' mary-jane;

for trees of green, red roses too;

for every time someone said, "I love you.".

And last of all, but standing tall,

before this world of ours ends,

let's all shout and make it a call:

let's give thanks for all our friends.