Vive Saint Sara

Please don’t look at me like that – I’m fine.
I see the fear in your eyes,
but I’m not scared you know.
What goes up must come down,
when you fly you eventually fall –
Ok, some plummet – but that’s not the point.

I know you’re about to cry – please don’t.
Your trembling chin is quite funny, still
I’d rather if you didn’t cry.
We could take a break – South of France is always good.
Really? You’re lovely, so glad you’re my mum –
Just one thing – no garlic bread, you and dad always get it.

That’s better – I like your laugh.
Think we could go Saintes Maries de la Mer?
I quite like it there, the chapel is perfect and,
you know if we go in May we’ll be just in time
to catch dear Sara-la-Kali. I remember the Catechism too –
We should take her some money – she might help.

The funny look isn’t needed – I’m not silly.
She might like a robe too and,
Some jewels to decorate her chamber wouldn’t go amiss.
Might make up for the Carmina Burana we’re so bad at.
I just adore those cute little candles everywhere –
The Gitans and their beautiful melodic pieces – so enchanting.

I like your smile – makes you look radiant.
You know Marie-Jacobe will be there too and,
Marie-Salome. Think we’ll be kissing them again?
I hope they remember me, it’s been a while.
Just remember they like it when you sing –
A thousand times – ‘Vive Saint Sara…vive vive!’

Opus

When you sit it begins. A libretto[1] won’t help you
understand it better. There’s no ordinary motif],
just that resounding drone hiding under the overture.
So grandioso[2]. The power of the opera where a little make-up and,
expressionist mime become a hoax. All of a sudden –
you’re somebody else.

Through the binoculars you see the lights out on the sea,
thoughts of nocturnes long ago. They were only
the scattered fisherman’s lamps.
An interlude in between the shadows. The wind howls and the sea shines as,
you watch your life revolve like the white wash astern before your eyes –
and you stand forte[3] on the terrace.

The pain chases you verismo[4]. The melancholic ghosts
take a minor hold of you. Their falsetto[5] embodies your desire for life,
but the moon emerging from a cloud makes death sweeter.
A glissando[6] from one moment to another. You find yourself
shedding a tear and you’re drowning…presto[7]. It’s life that has a finale[8] –
not its capriccio[9] melody.

___________________________________________________

[1] The text of an opera or any other vocal work.
[2] Played grandly.
[3] Loud /strong.
[4] Modeled after every day life.
[5] A style of male singing where by partial use of the vocal chords, the voice is able to reach the pitch of a female.
[6] Sliding between two notes.
[7] A direction in sheet music indicating the tempo is to be very fast.
[8] Movement or passage that concludes the musical composition.
[9] A quick, improvisational, spirited piece of music.

Nighthawks

Sombre reflections around the corner,
where quiet old Phillies’ lies.
There two lovers seat,
her arm graciously curved
into him –
his fingers rest gently on hers.

Two cups of coffee
and a white hat
highlight the shell of a gentleman.
His face shadowed,
almost like a black veil –
he’s no innocent treat.

Her neatly swept red hair,
like a copper helmet,
falls in a cascade of angelic curls.
Her attention stolen, kidnapped,
by a small pack of sugar –
she’s intrigued – ignoring his presence.

He speaks in whispers,
as though the tired waiter
has not yet suspected their crime.
His tanned wrinkled face
has shone on others alike –
he knows their story – their owes.

Even the lonesome fella,
he reads him
like an open book.
There’s no-one in the street,
the silence is loud, the guilt floats in the air –
like in a courtroom.

As a nighthawk painted
with luscious brushes,
freely flowed, devoted
each stroke to a character
in the story. Now he sleeps –
a long rest is needed – as he puts out the cigarette.

All Alone

All alone -

I'm all alone,

abandoned,

deserted -

all alone.

Just me and my thoughts.

Just me and my fears.

Just me and my oughts.

Just me and my dreams.

I'm all alone,

abandoned,

deserted -

all alone.

Feeling With My Pen

Lonely, I’m lonely.

Starting a new chapter,

a new echo – but

the same voice.

 

Silence, I’m silent.

Writing the new chapter,

a new style – still

the same theme.

 

Change, I’m changing.

Editing this new chapter,

a new mistake – with

the same end.

 

Feeling, I’m feeling.

Reading this chapter,

a new meaning – ‘cause

I’m feeling with my pen.