I kept my answers small and kept them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bullwark to my fear.

The huge abstractions I kept from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.

But the big answers clamoured to be moved Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.

Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, still I hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow.

And all the great conclusions coming near.

I keep my answers small and keep them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bulwark to my fear.

The huge abstractions I keep from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.

But the big answers clamoured to be moved
Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.

Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, I still hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow

And all the great conclusions coming near.

radiating
street lamps
ionized the
indigo blue
haze charging
the night air

sparking the
city’s eclectic
currents coursing
through the
abandoned raceways
and empty streets

energizing the
phantoms of
the city’s
restive spirits

the ghosts of past
Great Falls Fests came
jitterbugging back
to life

transparent
veils lifting
and falling
with it, a voltaic
indigo blue
billowed out of the
abandoned stadium
pouring smoking
oboe moans
into the cavity
of the great gorge

“I was one of the last
to perform at
Hinchliffe Stadium”
Duke proclaimed
with his usual  
distinguished air

“it was also one of my
last concerts”, he added
with a tinge of
sorrow in his voice

“the band was rockin
the Art Deco tiles,
splintering and shattering
into bits of earth toned graffiti
the last vestiges of
a bygone Jazz Age
dissolving into the
disco fizz of the
Seventies”

the indigo mood
clamoured off
the rocks absorbing
the sonorous waves
like a stand of
hallowed
sequoias

“I’m trying to
remember what
my last tune
was that night.

was it Caravan?
or a Prelude to
a Kiss?  No no
too mellow
we always ended
on an upper
a real crowd pleaser,
I recall the boys swung
a medley before the grand finale
that medley included
Mood Indigo, Caravan,
Sophisticated Ladies,
Prelude to a Kiss.
We opened with Kinda Dukish
Rockin and Rhythm
we closed with
Satin Doll
Yes I’m quite sure
I waltzed them
off the floor
that night with
Satin Doll”

Duke ran his
fingers through
his processed hair.
He grabbed my shoulders
raised his baggy eyelids
And looked me straight
In the eye

“Yes, we followed
Tito Puente, he killed it
we upped our game
He was just starting out
But at this time Silk City
was going Caribe
Juan Tizol was
out of his mind that night,
I thought him and Babs
we're gunna jump ship
and join the Salsa Circus
Yeah El Rex and Celia Cruz
were that good

El Rex had the place
jumpin and jivin
it was a glimpse of the old days
livin in the here and now
just like the old days
I couldn't compete with that
so I waltzed them off
the floor with Satin Doll
a little cheek to cheek swoon
maybe some guys got lucky that night
and maybe some girls fell in love
Yeah Paterson was changing,
the ***** Leagues long gone
the last ****** Auto Races
crossed the final finish line weeks before
when the raceways in the stadium
replaced the raceways to the factories
we knew it was coming to an end
and with it all the good paying
jobs, whatta shame
just like me and the boys
watching El Rex
the Duke was dethroned by a King
just like Silk City
we had our day in the sun too
a Satin Doll Sun
Those were some good times,
sometimes”

Duke scratched
his head,
and he looked down into
the swirling noise
of the Great Falls
“on a night like this
the mood indigo
takes you into the
darkest hues of blues”

fragment from
Silk City PIT 6:
The Great Falls

Duke Ellington, Coleman Hawkins
Mood Indigo




Oakland
3/30/13
jbm

(FRAGMENT WORK IN PROGRESS)

Part 6 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.

Written in the language of the hard hats and dedicated to each and every one of us who have endured this horrible ****** Winter weather*

Rain in gouts from June till now
There's blue clay mud forever,
Orange excavators ply
With sturdy tracked endeavour.
Lakes of water, turgid brown,
Are Swirling  with the flow
Of four inch pumps in overdrive
With ****** all to show.

Streaming rainfall day by day
As dogged men press on
To concrete saw and generator's
Screaming, nearby song.
Welders, under shelter, flash
Their lurid silver light
And ghosts of reinforcing bars
Reflect like day is night.

Mightily the ironwork
Descends by crane to trench
And snaking snout of concrete pump
Disgorge their load to bench
The magic of the bentonite
Performs it's subtle dance
And the concrete locks for centuries
As thunderous skies advance.

Knee deep in the morass
With perplexed furrowed brow,
An engineer is pondering
A sticky problem he has now
How to isolate contaminants
From mud to water flow,
How to guarantee the purity
As seaward tonnes of it does go

And still the deluge thundered down
Relentlessly it poured,
Day to day and month by month
Despite the plea's implored.
Relentlessly the hard hats
Bent their sodden backs to task
And forged a mighty work of progress
.... More than anyone could ask!

Amazing the endeavor,
Just amazing how they work
How men can face adversity
And simply will not go beserk!
How bounteous camaraderie
Generates between ranks.
When the hardship is shared
And the boss smiles... thanks.

For the roof beams are settling
And those deep holes begin
The tunnel takes shape
As slanting rain whistles in
And the big trucks do loiter
To idle there for a bit,
As the loud water blasters
Clear the clogged wheels of ****.

And the public all clamoured
To wait and queue in the stall
To watch and to witness
A quite remarkable call.
For the old Birdcage tavern
On that grim cloudy day
Promptly lifted her skirts
And slowly scuttled away.

All the glue and epoxy
And the rivers of nails,
And concrete trucks queuing
As the ******* flails.
And steel by the megaton
All rusted and twitched
And worriers worrying
Till the problems are fixed.
And the augers are drilling
In a great tandem arc
And nobody knows
Where the **** they can park!!!
  
Then the bright sunshine breaks
And the smiles all appear
And the work rate accellerates
For the way is now is clear
To inter that  dear old Vic tunnel
Down deep in the sod
Then you'll hear us all chortle
"We've ****** done it ...Thank God!"


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
3 October 2010

I said to Love,
“It is not now as in old days
When men adored thee and thy ways
All else above;
Named thee the Boy, the Bright, the One
Who spread a heaven beneath the sun,”
I said to Love.

I said to him,
“We now know more of thee than then;
We were but weak in judgment when,
With hearts abrim,
We clamoured thee that thou would’st please
Inflict on us thine agonies,”
I said to him.

I said to Love,
“Thou art not young, thou art not fair,
No elfin darts, no cherub air,
Nor swan, nor dove
Are thine; but features pitiless,
And iron daggers of distress,”
I said to Love.

“Depart then, Love!
Man’s race shall perish, threatenest thou,
WIthout thy kindling coupling-vow?
The age to come the man of now
Know nothing of?
We fear not such a threat from thee;
We are too old in apathy!
Mankind shall cease…—
So let it be,”
I said to Love.

Lived the life of an artist
long before I became one.
Pressed to guitar strings
until my fingers were numb
to all exposed skin
that was not my own.

Listened to one thousand sad songs
over and over
until the pointless chords
clamoured over one another,
psalms of living
fall on deaf ears.

Trawled archives of *******.
Lauded aristocrats of cheap whiskey nights
and black coffee mornings.
Garnished my days with addictions carried
by better men
in love with real women.

Grew thin, moved about the apartment
in the graveyard hours
tacking songs to the walls.
In the absence of chains and ***
I fixed myself with neon lights
and cigarettes.

Spilt paint over undeserving paper
beneath the halogen bulb
to colour radio silences
of past friendships,
mountains I should let recede
like a ship in the night.

Stood alone in crowds
to witness the onset of a moment,
openings and closings of mouths and doors;
each one to allow another person in.
I go home alone
and sleep with my thoughts.

God before penning the very first word in the book of creation
He knew the last that reflected in inking the very first drop
composing the bottom line that gravitates every creation.
In the know so much so what was yet to be He could call on
indeed assembled all the future humans on the Day of Alast
when He asked ‘Am I not your Lord?’ Yes, we said aloud.
Responded to Him long, long before our physical birth!

The whole shebang was in the beginning in the first set out
Bounce before the Big Bang the number zero before that
and within its circle was a marvelous exponent the pi
constantly pops up with the reasons to be alive!
The first creations were even before all of that
Foundation was laid the stone is a man and woman
indifferent grounds sprawled the eternity in between  
that embraces the two with its endless varied beauty
making them truly the distinguished two for the one reality!

God made them with love from the bottom of the heart
Oh the bottom is nectar and more so the rose in bloom
embraces a sweeter debut flowering off a honeyed bud  
God's ink flows, the sweetest ocean bellows, from the start
and to the end, all that heard it mellifluous!

Before the cloud basks in the blue dancing in the air
then rains down in serene melodies bedews the atmosphere.
Oh the all transparent ocean of God's first drop of ink goes viral
Fathima rises from the midst, the first spiritual woman swims out,
sipping every drop of this potion ‘there is more’ she clamoured
The begins the end yet no end God’s first creations triumph!

The rain's been relentless
I've been soaked for two days
the wind blowing sideways
Unavoidable fray

Cold to bone, I run bathwater too hot to handle
Want to sweat it all out, and to run myself pure
Pale steam 'round me rising, obscuring the candles
and thoughts of you run though my head, like a lure.

My clothes lie bedraggled, cast here on the floor
kindling flashbacks of searching for mine in your room
fully dressed again, kindly you'd showed me the door
and I left, leaving heartstrings caught up in your loom.

So here I am, aching
so here I am, tired
so here I am, glad for the perfume you left

So here I am, hopeless
I'm mystified, following
bright flashing memories, indeliberate gifts.

How can it be, chest cavity filling with sorrow
What small sweetened curse did you drip in my heart?
Chemicals mine, and chemicals foreign
weave conundrums of pain as your next work of art.

I loathe to think you've one resentment against me
Did I clarify all clamoured in heart and head?
moth to flame, I remember you hate them,
don't hate me
but also, remember- they all end up dead.

You'll never know, just what a blessing our time was
Precious stone, as you know are important to me
I am that Roman candle, actinic in pearls
my fog soon in passing, and I will be free.

So please, don't let too much dust cover our glow
Synchronicitous, meant to be, beautiful, rare
Something splendid as that, should be held in the heart
Hands of time have a tendency- obscure and tear.

so here I am, peaceful
so here I am, salient
the memories of your arms around me, your chest

so here I'm imagining your face before me
how perfect our moments
Thankyou, lover;
I'm blessed.

Mistress of my passion, by whom I am enamoured
Thou art the golden yoke unto my soul
For thy tender affections I have craved and clamoured
To thee I dedicate this enchanted howl
To bear love aloft, to dedicate thy self
To the duty of Heart's compassion
May make the spirit swell in good health
And compel it to exquisite action
In thy light, which begets a radiance
I feel the guidance of a divinely wrought star
Enamoured of our mutual dalliance
I pledge and worship to thee from afar
    My sweet entreaties I refine
    To fathom love and soar divine

Through a garden bedecked in the finest façade
In a natural beauty of eons compiled
An assault to the senses which quickens the pulse
Yet soothing the detail, organically styled

Its borders haphazard yet clearly defined
By a frenzied assortment of pollen clad blooms
Enhancing creation with lust and a craving
With nectar, ambrosia scented perfume

The thickets and bushes, with industry cloaked
A sprawling utopia thriving therein
With bees and with butterflies drinking their fill
And drizzled in webs which the spiderfolk spin

A meandering trail through flourishing life
An encouraging push from the sun to my rear
Entrancing, the chill of the dew underfoot
Yet thrusting itself like an ice laden spear

My sight is attracted by hidden desire
To a door at the crest of a flurry of stairs
And the stone of the flight is as fire to my soles
After languishing still as the midsummer glares

The door is ajar and within comes the sound
Of a single piano, adeptly caressed
Each note sends a shiver rebounding around me
In purity soaked and perfection possessed

I make my way forward and darkness inside
Removes me of sight as my pupils adjust
And the air is intense as a northerly breeze
And shimmers in motes cut of sunlight and dust

My eyes become clear and before me they see
Cascading and dancing a musical frieze
A picture in motion, a fairytale path
In a spectrum of tones and a myriad keys

Inspiration her name and the course she describes
Is a poem in light to beguile the mind
She speaks with her body, a wordless refrain
Of a mystery poets have clamoured to find

A pipe cuts a harmony no one could play
Distilling forever the passage of time
And though such a symphony draws at the tongue
Causality never once utters a rhyme

A pattern of shimmering images form
Behind inspiration and quickening pace
To fade with the music and ever be lost
Lest the pen of a poet can hold them in place

Most fickle of muses and teaser of tongues
To flirt with despair and to promise elation
We chase but remaining just out of out reach
Is the ghost of a girl which we call ‘Inspiration’

We are possibility.
Nothing undone:
the red key swung,
the pins aligned.
     Spite and Malice -
you won in Burque;
in Buffalo, in April,
I'll be writing in coffee shops.

Cage made fake acrostics
and clamoured more than us.
He watered himself in blenders
tacked his piano like stigmata.

But really, he just put the right letter
on the correct line (if he
ever wrote a line),
but our house was a mess
of books and skulls
and everywhere you looked
too perfect a nest,

so we tore ourselves apart.
Why don't we stop?
Someone will spend graduate school
anthologizing our correspondence,
analyzing the details we missed,
et al., hic et nunc.

The girls dancing in Budapest
and the guys making passes at you in the snow
reduce us to baser instincts
by counting how we
could, might, tentatively
hurt again
on our second-class driver's test.

Fortunately, I am with you
when you look at computer screens
and you're with me at the bar
when television commercials
show off their bras and the beer hits
harder than libretto
and snus drips down the candle wax
making arcs like the Scott Monument.

The imperfection is bliss,
the knots loosen and move
up our spines. We'll soak
the tub and swell
our glands with menthe
and tumble
     further down the mud,
until we either love or ****
what makes us whole.

Your rambling on seems just that to minds twisted so tight.
Suffocating their sight for sweet melody of the real.

swans and swanettes
all clamoured to dance
with the cygnet's undesirable
admission's prance

they didn't know that this male
was such a bragging exposure
and would strip their secrets
leaving them without composure

a waltzing of blackmail
was called in his revelation
the lovely feathered ones
trust divulged as intimidation

they only saw the charade
of this not so perfect ballroom chap
who'd tell all if they were unwilling
to twirl on his spin's tap

in fear lived the honeys    
of his fox trotting troupe
as their private steps
would be made an open coupe

I close my eyes
And you’re still there
you washed your hair
whilst the pots
and the pans
you left in your shower
clamoured for water
in calming tones.

padding feet
careful tread
A dancer? Maybe…
And I watched from
the ribbon of hall light

as you

wrung out your inhibitions
cleansed a small torment or two
Somewhere I hear a piano
your eyes found mine
and for a second I loved you
for a second there was but that second
and nothing, nothing more.

The last time I saw you,
I begged for
Stillness and silence
From the questions causing
Tremors in my head;
And for a split second,
They obliged.

After which they morphed from
The whimpers of a lovesick girl
Into an army of
Screaming and indignant women.
They flooded my mouth,
And clamoured against
The barricades that were my teeth
Held in a tight, fake smile.

I could feel my tongue
Straining to replicate the
Echoes of the questions
That had been seared onto
It's surface.

“What is this?”
“Is it supposed to hurt this much?”

I can't possibly let them out, can I?
So I chew, and swallow and
Chew
And
Swallow, and
Wince at its rancid acidity.

But they are relentless,
For I feel their sharp words
***** against the backs
Of my eyes.

They substituted tears,
And filled my eyes to the brim,
In the place of
A smile that never reached them.

I think you should
Acknowledge my tears now,
Its time I asked you a few questions.

Did you  read the news someone blew up the stand where the boys and girls band play for the TV crew

They clamoured and shout get the **** out as tears run down their cheeks

And who is gonna prey to Jesus and who is gonna say don't cry today it'll all be okay but you and I know that's a lie

And in our hearts and minds
We watch as crazy people destroy, the ones we love and nobody can save on this day

Blood on the hands of the different man the death dealer of now, who hides behind faith and jokes in our face as we carry the dead to their grave

And so the song fades away
And so we go off and prey
And so we listen and say
Who we gonna trust, who will be the next
And the bombs just keep comming all day

O Muse, thou art a maker of tireless melody,
Who with thine scintillating passion maketh my own less illustrious,
Thou art the source of - yet anodyne to - my tender malady,
For thine assiduous affections I have clamoured industrious.
Should your song run dry and run out of harmony,
And the coda finally end,
You truth will be nevertheless understood for thy cosmic symphony,
A truth that Heaven dare not forfend.
O let my lust be reciprocal,
Or my own Heart's strength will decay,
Upon thee I have been attentive, focal,
For hope that thine Heart could assuage my dismay.
    Yet away with me, I hear you say,
    Administering poison in the fifth act of the play.

1400 years ago,
Hussein had no mass media,
To narrate the neither humongous tragic events of Kerbala,
Nor his horrendous massacre.
Actions speak louder than words,
And today because of his sacrifice more than millions,
Walked from Najaf to Kerbala
Lamenting Labaik Ya Hussain,
And thousands clamoured to serve food, water and accommodation in the name of Hussain.
Hussain who sacrificed his head for Islam on the scorching sands of kerbala,
Hungry and thirsty for three days.
Hussain belongs to not one religion,
But to humanity truth and justice.
5/9/2023