Okay, so update on Irma… and how we are doing. Irma’s center has weakened. This means nothing for those of us under the feeder bands. We are under a tornado warning, we have high winds gusting through, and way too much rain. All in all, it appears we are going to have a fun night.
Baroque-Gothic — DeviantArt
drifting into the Vanguard
in ’61, Trane blows a blue-bottle
fly into my silken ear
through the streets
allowing a taxi
to precipitate me
home where I have never been
the blue-bottle fly beats
on the window of my aching,
jazz-torn crux. He wants
I let the blue-bottle fly slouch
in across the threshold
and watch him dance
around the swirling
Now he’s beating
on the window to get
out. Where’s the swatter?
So this is my take on Jilly’s really cool challenge poem, called “Trane Blows.” This is part of Jilly’s September Casting Bricks Challenge. Poets are posting half-poems, and other poets are taking a try at completing them. The trick is to be yourself but not lose the tone, voice, and intent of the initiator. Feeling brave? Come give it a go!
We are still a fair distance away from this beast. Cuba is getting pounded. The sane people have departed the Keys. And we in Orlando are watching ONLY the National Weather Service.
Advice to all my friends. This is not the end times. This is not the result of human climate change. This is meteorology. Spin happens… naturally!
Hurricane Irma passing Puerto Rico
The wine does not answer
for the hurricane that comes.
It does not answer,
but it lifts away the pulsing
dread that comes
with spaghetti forecasts
that leave us unsettled
as live oaks under tropical sway.
The wine sets aside
for the night the uncertainty –
hop a flight to Alaska where it’s free
from hurricane parades
and storm-surge floats, or crawl
inside the dishwasher, firmly mounted
under the counter.
With wine we ride
waves so like pressure changes
the nearer you find
yourself to the cyclone’s
“The river can’t heal everything.” – Jim Harrison
He has a hole that sighs
heavily, expansively. He’s heard
that sigh in older men, wondering
if it’s relief or joy or a shudder
at such a world.
Ain’t no cure, no cure!
She has heard a whistle which wakes
her in the middle of the night.
Sleep, sleep eludes her, overcome
by tomorrow thoughts, and dreams
of yesterday that refused to bear
fruit so she could sleep.
Ain’t no cure, no cure!
Who has a mind that shudder steps
through the passing hours, refusing
to grasp brass rings or to cling
tenaciously to anything positive,
negative, or in-between, because living
is too full and non-stop?
Know that the river ain’t no cure
for this madcap malady!
Ain’t no cure ‘cause the river
is too damned far away.
It’s a long walk, and it ain’t no cure.
It’s open link night at dVerse Poets Pub! What does that mean? Click on the link and find out.
“The minstrel in the gallery / Looked down
upon the smiling faces.” – Ian Anderson
I am but a minstrel, a singer of songs.
A righter of wrongs.
And I sing to make my mistress happy.
And I sing to bring her peace.
When my voice and my lute
do not suffice,
I unsheathe my sword
And I become….
This is written and submitted as part of Jilly’s September Casting Bricks Challenge. There is no discernible form; but it leans toward a faux-Madrigal (in case there are any Madrigal experts lurking nearby). If need be… channel Jethro himself… or listen to Traffic’s John Barleycorn Must Die (the song).