color me cool
perhaps we are
saving each other
one song at a time
endlessly moving
wind, waves, water
kissing the shore
achingly beautiful
true colors
of black and white
melting together, dancing
in and out
through each other
ever weaving, creating
new life
filling the empty
emptying the full
like music
itself
🎹🎹🎹
AL
It was after dinner.
You were talking to me across the table
about something or other,
a greyhound you had seen that day
or a song you liked,
and I was looking past you
over your bare shoulder
at the three oranges lying
on the kitchen counter
next to the small electric bean grinder,
which was also orange,
and the orange and white cruets for vinegar and oil.
All of which converged
into a random still life,
so fastened together by the hasp of color,
and so fixed behind the animated
foreground of your
talking and smiling,
gesturing and pouring wine,
and the camber of your shoulders
that I could feel it being painted within me,
brushed on the wall of my skull,
while the tone of your voice
lifted and fell in its flight,
and the three oranges
remained fixed on the counter
the way stars are said
to be fixed in the universe.
Then all the moments of the past
began to line up behind that moment
and all the moments to come
assembled in front of it in a long row,
giving me reason to believe
that this was a moment I had rescued
from the millions that rush out of sight
into a darkness behind the eyes.
Even after I have forgotten what year it is,
my middle name,
and the meaning of money,
I will still carry in my pocket
the small coin of that moment,
minted in the kingdom
that we pace through every day
🍊🍊🍊
This Much I Do Remember by Billy Collins
He sculpts, carves, whittles
a fresh block of words
he’s been led to
by winds that whisper
or make him shiver.
Slowly, lines take shape,
come alive with sounds
the ear cannot hear;
reflections only seen
by the inner eye;
raw, natural scents
from the tree itself.
He pulls colors from a rainbow,
the surf, or maybe the sand;
at times he adds moisture
from a tear.
And as with raw wood,
he whittles—whittles, going with
the grain—braces the wood
to flatten a knot, smiles at its
character coming through—
will make a good piece.
He sands until is all-over smooth,
seals it with the joy of the craft,
a fine piece that holds
a part of himself—
now transformed into form
that lets the poem speak
🌈🌈🌈
The Poet and His Craft by Camille A. Balla
photo sources found at http://www.pinterest.com
life: acoustic & amplified 