Sonnet to the Yellow Warbler

Warbler returns from winter in the south.
He battled the winds to be the first here.
Scoping out the perfect place for his nest,
tucked into a bush on the riverbed,
near to his food, yummy grubby insects.
Hidden from cowbirds, snakes, and wild cats,
he builds his nest of bark, grass, and plant fluff.
And when all is ready, he starts to sing.

Our Warbler sings with all of his being.
His song says: "I've built a nest! Be mine!
You lazy, late bums, stay out of my space!
The crows are coming! They'll eat the babies!"
The nights are cold, but at dawn Warbler cries:
"Hey look! The sun! I'm alive! I'm alive!"

Sonnet to the Greatbatch School of Music

Few prospective music majors endure.
The naive idiots don't understand
that musicianship is all too similar
to english, bio, or psychology.
the fun wears off, the novelty is drowned
by math-like formulas, chord progressions,
six hundred years of detailed history,
and hours of practice with no progress

But music fills a hole you didn't know
your soul was missing, fills you up inside
with life and knowledge and culture,
building and pounding and chipping away
until your entire being explodes
spreading through the world in the form of song.

Intangible

I played some music.

I wanted to write it for you

but it cannot fit into words.

I can sing it--

“dn-daah, dt-dt-daah”

but there aren’t even any vowels

you would understand.

Stuck Inside My Head

Poem

Pome

Home

Poem

Po-em

Boheme

La vie Boheme

Bohemia

Rent

March for Life

He has diabetes

but still,

He packed three days of food

and came,

to stand in the cold rain,

for his six grandchildren

but no marriages.

Because which one

would he rather not have?

She slipped on the ice and twisted her ankle,

but still,

armed with an ace bandage and some Motrin

she came,

to walk two miles uphill

for the grandchild that wasn’t,

because of what she’d said.

we pass a family photo on a sign, proclaiming,

“Thank you for our adopted children.”

There is a story
I wish would be mine

someday.

Breath Mark

My first breath-mark comes

at the end of four measures.

I forget and breathe instead

in the middle of the phrase.

In the practice room,

the lesson,the rehersal,

every time, without fail

I miss that breath.

Final performance, in the recital hall.

The piano starts and

I soar through those four measures

without a thought,

and breath to spare.

Missing the Concert

Concert night,

high emotions

running late

let’s get moving

Opening numbers

remember F#

keep in time

watch the baton

Here’s the solo

more crescendo

breath support!

that was awesome

Intermission

7 minutes

stop to help Laura

move the harp

In the back room

take deep breaths

drink some water

mental recharge

Lights come down

two minutes early

baton comes up

where is Ernest?

Stuck backstage

watching us play

can’t sneak on now

just sit it out

First piece over

applause applause

sneak behind marimba

do you think he noticed?

Concert continues

playing perfectly

sure that by the end

all will be forgotten.

The Circlet in her Hair

She could stand their glances no longer.

Bowing and curtsying to her

without genuine respect,

going through the motions

because of her father, mother, or elder brother.

She was just another being

who took up space and breathed the air.

They bowed to her and hurried away,

without thought to her dreams

or the sense of duty weighing heavily on her head.

All they saw was the circlet of silver in her ebony hair.

She was just a signifier, a face standing in court,

a young child protected by everyone in the country.

They thought she did not care for them.

The youngest was just the child who was spoiled,

without care, and was blind to everything around her.

“Do you want flowers to perfume your room,

to weave into your hair?”

Such shallow questions

for the lady they thought was shallowness itself.

She presented herself in public, did her duties.

Yet, her spirit and heart suffered

from the image her people cemented in their own minds.

All they saw was the circlet of silver in her hair.

Those stuck up servants with their noses in the air

bowed only as low as they deemed adequate,

offered another one of their imposed questions

that assumed they knew what she wanted.

They assumed too much, for they did not notice

the circlet weighed heavy on her brow.

They assumed it was light, granting dreams and liberty.

They were wrong. It was a cage, a shackle to her very existence…

tears slipped down her cheeks.

She tore the circlet of silver from her hair,

and it shattered on the ground.

orig. by D'Layna Blauvelt

Bread Day

Sometimes it’s good to be a lefty.

When I slice bread

I only touch the part I will eat.