FUSION Magazine

THE TEST OF THE BOW

                                                                    

He proved himself by plucking high-strung gut

Until it hummed a single note.  So pure

It sang-a ringing, feathered bolt of sound-

That even brazen bucks (their noisy brawl

An antidote for doubt) fell still; around

The walls skirts quivered for the first strong cut,

The larksome thrill of severed air.

                                                   So sure,

Then, one man stood above this throng, elbow

Arced, fingers poised to throw them into thrall.

What goddess nodded portent from the door?

He bowed toward his muse, that blood should flow:

Brash bodies moved, then shoved to fill the floor.

He proved himself the master of them all.

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haiku        

 

a hawk glides                                 

along the mountain ridge…                       

afternoon stillness                                   

 

april morning

a light snow                                               

the only sound                                           

 

stretched out by a shadow

the grasshopper’s

antennae                                                                                                 

lost in the lights

the high fly ball

that never comes down                              

 

computer window

the face of

down-time                                   

 

no letter from you                                   

watching a mocking bird

chase a butterfly           
                                   

first snow                                               

the broken beachchair

frozen to the ground                                   

 

paw prints                                               

disappear in the snow 

wind under the hemlocks                                   

 

jazz haiku

 

comb

with broken teeth

blues harmonica player

 

big man Mingus

in flames…

ashes in the Ganges

 

muddy waters

where the river ends

the tune inside his head

 

Alabama church

John Coltrane

John Coltrane

 

dust on my shoes

gonna write my name there—

birdfeathers across the alley

 

vamp after vamp

a train whistle widens

in the cool air

 

North Beach

finding the old bar

with poetry and jazz

 

sheets of sound

from the’Trane window:

bound for glory

 

finding a new sound-voice

under the Brooklyn Bridge

harmonic screams

 

bluenotes

in a trunk of rhythms

the raw silence