we sit quietly here, fretting
over nothing in particular.
some bemoan their lot,
others get on with it willingly.
stop and have a cup of tea.
while others walk in #ice and mud,
while others #drown,
while others #starve.
without a #cup of tea.
© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher
He rakes the sand
with thick wooden rake
wearing sweat stained clothes
and sandpapered jackets
that defy the sun.
His dark eyes disappear
unnoticed under the shadow of hat.
No smile but always “hola”
while tourists move in their
self-absorbed bubbles
Hours slide like the slow
heavy drops of sweat
that sting his eyes
as he carves, sculpts
sifts out debris,
swirls grains
recanvases.
The hollowed shell
of his body bent over
in a slow crawl
tongue touching
tequila and lime
crusted lips.
With circular sweeps
he enshrines the sand.
moving steadily outward
arching spirals
toward the sea.
Drawn towards
concentric mounds
I see shells centrally
placed offered
with sanctimony.
I witness this consecration.
He moves on
heat waves distort
his figure
arms and legs become unhinged
disconnected.
and dissolves into the sea.
© 2017, Michele Riedel
Like A symbol yet unknown
Looks like love sometimes hate
Looks like faith cheating on hope
Looks like fear breading on dreams
Looks like health depending on wealth
Looks like strength hoping on age
Looks like status owing to power
Looks like trust standing on friendship
Looks like hardwork depending on success
Looks like greed in comfort
Looks like laziness in contentment
Looks like envy in wishes
What Manner of life is this
What sorcery is this
Why lay claims to love life
When no one cares for but themselves
A life where breastfeeding mothers feed no more
A life where fathers flee from children
A life where the world fails humans
A life where nature cries for help
A life where death is celebrated more than life
A life where wealth is more valuable than life
A life where the earth is a sinking hole
Oh! What manner of life is this?
© 2017, Michael Odiah
This tale is told by many tongues,
of now and yesteryear.
Three hundred years of life are here,
but memories disappear.
Between each line, a thousand words
of love, of heart and soul,
there’s mystery here, it must be said,
when tales remain untold,
they seed a search for history,
a sparkle in the eyes
of once romantic sons of yore;
a family’s demise.
Refrain:
And how their days would start at dawn
to sounds of clacking feet.
Underneath the stairs they’d run,
their serving paths to beat.
Stone dressed, these monuments became
far more than home sweet home,
for they withstood the test of time
in centuries to come.
And who could guess, in such a place,
we’d cast our eyes and, more,
write stories in organic dust,
of lives that went before.
Their toil, by standards of today,
would break, in half the time,
the backs of men and women who,
at forty, passed their prime.
[Refrain]
Faint tinkling of bone china plates
their masters’ breakfast fare,
the focus of their energies
to serve, make good, repair.
And all day long these duties pressed
their shoulders to the stone
all day, each week, each month, each year,
their lives were not their own.
No leisure time to recreate,
without upstairs’ consent.
With no spare time or energy,
their lives were paid as rent.
[Refrain]
No time allowed away from toil
save worship Sunday morn,
where duty bound them to this house,
all but their souls forsworn.
So much depended on their strength,
their duty, loyalty;
with half a day each week to rest
they earned their royalty.
They had to cast off any thought
of freedom, every day,
they bore their obligation and
they signed their lives away.
[Refrain]
Then, life meant building grander things
mere ornaments to scale,
denying the austerity,
when nation could not fail.
And here to glimpse humanity,
their own great compromise;
to fall from favour and love’s loss;
so too a great house dies
… and with it all dependant life,
no welfare scheme was theirs
for all of its inhabitants
underneath the stairs.
[Refrain]
And as his mansion starts to die,
the Earl sold on his lot,
the need for education rose
and a roof to stop the rot.
But here’s the final irony:
for those who served in fear
of losing jobs for which, today,
we freely volunteer.
This grand estate, these monuments
this house and gardens too
are all the product of an age,
restored and serving you.
[Refrain]
This landscape’s green and pleasant land
its rooted, verdant gold
captures all these mysteries
for you that we unfold.
© 2013 John Anstie (lyric edited 2016)
[This lyric is based on an original ballad, written three years before, but extensively edited and augmented for Joseph Alen Shaw’s commission, the ‘Wentworth Cantata’, which was performed in the historic Victorian Conservatory of Wentworth Castle Gardens, South Yorkshire in October 2016. Joe has written about his composition, elsewhere in this month’s edition]
His music sounds lost,
as if he’s never seen a swan.
It sounds found again,
as if he has taken up a young
lady’s invitation
to bathe in her clawfoot tub.
His music sounds lost,
as if he has witnessed
a ritual drowning.
It sounds found again,
as if a bigger planet’s mass
is tugging at his tides.
© 2017, Glen Armstrong
Allow the nuanced rose
to grow behind your face.
Or somewhere in Europe.
Walk up to the orchestra
pit and declare,
I found that essence rare.
Johnny Yip lets Johnny Yen
carry him over the threshold
and name the electric poodle.
It’s nice to pick someone
else’s scab for a change.
Make small talk with the fellas
as they tend their garden.
Praise Berlin and its underground.
Praise the word of mouth.
Praise the loud, distorted
announcement that your pictures
are ready to pick up at the kiosk.
© 2017, Glen Armstrong
The last thing that she said to me
was keep yourself alive
she’d been a fan of Mercury
May and those two other guys
whose names I can’t remember
I walk around downtown
and the city feels like one gigantic
vinyl record store
tonight the music left to us
and trapped inside those discs
spirals toward an emptiness
that once had purpose.
© 2017, Glen Armstrong
look at the sky
it’s going to rain
so my teacher
taught us the -ing form
all things passing by
described
as a blue cloud
as a rainy day
as our eyes looking up
we never saw a rainbow
together
but we had sex
during a storm
wind blowing out of the window
but we chatted lying
on a soaked meadow
birds trying to speak from branch to branch
but we called each other at the phone
in a wet vernal evening
words about a rainbow we saw from our different cities
I think I know where the golden pot
myths talked about
is hidden
but I don’t care to search it
because it is somewhere now
because we are now somewhere
under a rainbow
© 2017, Mendes Biondo
First Time
a friend over at his place
put headphones over
my ears because it
was the seventies
and I was eleven
and never worn them before.
The rich friend says “Listen,”
as he puts the black mufflers
over my ears,
the thump, thump, thump,
the voices without shortwave
crackle or click of scratches,
and now
in the next century
a kind of Dark Side
Of the Moon everywhere,
giant footfalls as if I’m the shrinking
man, the scratch of flies feet,
high heels in the next street,
Earth moving at 140 miles an hour
beneath my feet
because my ear operation worked.
© 2017, Paul Brookes
Bubbling and breaking
Trouble in bass bone
Trouble in babble
Irish rabble round hub
And nub of tub
Of bars dribble
Then lug snug
Rhythm round rug
Where couples rumble
A stone jig
To dumb bell
Troubling skin
Tight on rum drum
© 2017, Paul Brookes
(previously appeared in Picaroon’s “Troubadour” anthology)
Nights stretched to morning.
Muscles ached from hauling gear,
and set-ups:
Conga’s, bongo’s, granite blocks, chimes.
Hung and racked.
A full traps case: Guero, rattles, rain-stick,
cabasa.
Noises hidden till hands’ contact.
Mics rigged—one for skins, another ambient,
that took each whistle, whisper,
snick, thrum and clack.
Then the ubiquitous wait.
To absorb the room. Slide into the zone,
head-prep, sound-check.
Each instrument tested,
as tech-man spidered over his desk,
tweaked risers, treble, bass, EQ.
Mixed like a chef.
My sounds glided round, through.
Seasoned judiciously as salt.
The warm wash of it rolled back.
Skins sang, belled and bellowed.
hands and wrists tingled.
Excitement hummed, visceral, deep.
Then the eye-catch, knowing grab
of notes as we painted the tune,
onto the air. Tight, perfect, seamless.
Individual skill
honed to a collective golden whole.
Watching faces smiled.
Applause washed the finale.
Drew us toward the take-down.
A gritty-eyed struggle to stay awake,
in a van in early dawn.
© 2017, Miki Byrne
A borrowed costume,
dampening with nerve-sweat.
A delicate, pretty concoction.
Breath-tight top, frilled skirt,
red, sequinned seams.
A skaters bum-freezer,
stretched in places
that fit another’s curves.
For tonight, it was hers.
Backstage, The Hollies waited.
The warm-up,
Go-Go girls of La Dolce Vita,
tasked with shaping the mood.
Their cue came. They stepped.
Blinded by the gobo, bathed by gells,
pink, blue, peach, gold.
Chests ached from bass resonance,
monitors thundering foldback.
Synchronised routine
smoothed them across the stage.
Limbs moved ;sex-on legs languor
vampy come-to-bed motion.
Hearts pounded, high kicks and sass.
All was music, dry ice, strobes.
Practised routine
spilled from limbs and feet.
Two and half minutes of inhibition.
A show for the public.
Bow taken, breath regained
they brushed damp hair,
told the new girl
She did ok.
© 2017, Miki Byrne
Music ceases.
Only a string or skin trembles.
Hands tingle, sweat prickles
as minds loosen tendrils sewn
through the symbiosis of playing.
Slow seconds pass.
Breath stuffs itself back
into tight spaces of lungs.
Silence is deep.
A temporary empty world
where we are alone,
pinned under light.
Then it begins.
Slow, like the beginning of rain,
that increases and swells,
subtle as flowing water.
Hands collide. Throats roar.
Whistles slice warm air.
People stand arms high,
as if their appreciation might rise,
swell to a rolling wave
that heaves toward and over us.
We are lifted to a plateau
of euphoria, joy, satisfaction.
We take our bow, return.
Leave, wired and content.
© 2017, Miki Byrne
The bass of music came crashing,
lyrics grabbing on to my soul.
To my ears the speakers bashing,
as the rhythm grabs a hold.
Falling for a tune, like love,
crashing down in desperation to feel.
Every note sings like a dove;
Making all my emotions become real.
When music really hits, I feel.
© 2017, S.R. Chappell
Life without music would be like a guitar without strings, a piano without keys, a cello without a bow, and a sax without a reed.
Music is my religion, lyrics preach to my heart in need.
It eases my soul when I’m falling apart.
The rhythm of the music is like the beat of my heart.
The melody sings to my soul, and melts my troubles away.
Drums move my feet, when the horns hit it makes me sway.
Guitars can electrify me to life, or simply sing me a lullaby.
Piano notes dance on me, like the wings of a butterfly.
The lick of the bass it goes straight to my hips.
Words of the lyrics sing of all my relationships.
There’s a tempo to match my every mood,
when I’m feeling happy, sad, or angry and rude.
Music has been faithful and never failed me.
It offers a love that sets me free.
So many times it’s eased my mind.
Music’s my friend who has always been kind.
Some people say music is a sin.
Though even in silence I have music within.
© 2017, S. R. Chappell
Transforming us with blues, boogie-woogie,
using training in classics to quash rage,
she dug into our souls, tore open hearts, exposed our psyche.
Before King’s dream, she mounted battles onstage
from Harlem to Carnegie, leaving beloved Bach behind,
she battered walls of injustice, rattled abusers’ cages, yet
allowed herself to be battered, her sanity strewn.
Nina, a Harlem Renaissance soul out of time,
whose good intentions drown in madness and regret,
infused righteous power into every tune.
© 2017, Bill Cushing
A shape appears
and is gone,
comes into view,
disappears, until,
cresting the hill,
the spot
blotting the sun,
a cartload of hay,
takes shape.
Emerging,
the wagon,
oxen-drawn, a juggernaut pulled
by two thousand pounds,
rolls between fields–
grinding dirt,
crushing stones.
Sweating flanks
of coarse,
matted hair
cause slow,
rhythmic hammering,
dull thunder
as hooves pound earth.
The ground moves
to the sound
of these hardened
timpani.
Beast and wagon pass,
processional,
as if solemn,
and then recede
slowly
out of sight.
A wake is left–
strong pungent odor
of musk
mixed
with the sweet sharpness
of the cut stalks
being carried
to the village beyond.
©2017, Bill Cushing
The BeZine 