Kent Anderson paints

JAZZ IMPROVISATION

 

Vernon Mooers writes

This Light Is Dying 

Though you cannot speak now  
I can understand the gesture
in a hundred years.
You have not heard the chickadees sing so sweetly
or seen a sunset this bright orange
point with your one good feeble hand
toward the cherry and apple blossoms
     the hummingbirds flutter
miss a beat
flicker like a burning light
heart pulse fading away.

You who fly and swoop over the islands
     of this valley
hear my gentle cry above the wind. 


Flower Hummingbird -- Sarah Voyer

Jack Harvey writes

Al Mein Gelt Verspilt

      After Grimmelshausen's

Melchior Sternfels von Fuchshaim

You son of a whore;

you goddamned arrogant bastard,

all your money pissed away,

again and again,

vagrant and on the move

your locomotion never stops,

travel never gets old

and vagabondage becomes

a rhombus;

Paris to Vienna

to the Schwarzwald,

to Moscow, to mermen,

ending on an island paradise;

idylls of an

out and out scoundrel,

a picturesque rogue,

leaving his life,

his skirmishes

on the road and

of his own free will,

coming to peace at last.

What a life!

Melchior comes juggling

along life's distorted turnpike,

his cloak, a crust of wool,

disappears around a corner,

but like an architrave,

supporting and adorning,

Melchior, our low water,

our ebb tide,

our luck, reappeareth!

Along this road

his breastplate creaks and

squeaks, debased from

too much hard use;

a skillful soldier,

a better captain, but

bad decisions among

gentle folk folded him up;

a bungled passage,

a few hasty words and

departure was final.

Skipping out in the night,

the moon is reticent

and behind closed doors

what goes on is

nobody's business and

no help to this wanderer;

no charitable souls

in God's light or livery

live here.

Melchior strides on like

the dragoon he never was,

tramps comically and

catching some

dumb country lass,

retires at last with a sphinx

who stinks of more than knowledge;

in the morning her lovely

stone arms hold no more than

the billow of Melchior's bedclothes.

He left hours ago,

marching across the inhospitable heath;

his intent lasted to a satisfying root,

a roll in the hay and

no goodbyes;

doesn't have the time.

These adventures come in flocks,

and what in all the world,

what in all the world

is as real as the red herrings

thrown across his meandering trail,

in the windings of his ways,

and windy, too, from too

many open windows,

too many getaways;

no time for introspection

in the heat of the moment.

Melchior whispering in the

grey ears of Death, it's not time   

yet, it's not, but Melchior's fears

assume oracular importance;

on his snorting horse

he rides hard, rides on and on;

any delay may pitch him down.

The poetry of the moment given

to the most Fabian of his

lights of love,

the best of all his rare birds and

clear-toned canaries;

let her do with it

what she wants,

speak clear-toned vowels

never before heard

in any of the lands he saw,

the cities and villages he visited;

like a Bengal tiger raging and

shifting his line of march,

like a beggar, too,

when occasion demanded.

This is the end.

An island of peace,

a romance of fate and abdication.

Before we resume our

various hyperborean tasks,

let us pay some respect

to this scoundrel, this devourer,

this waster, this wanderer;

let us be warm and friendly

all the livelong day

to his memory,

to a man

not afraid to go his own way,

large bold unpredictable,

who performed tawdry wonders,

who had his luck,

good and bad,

and laughed at it.

Let a last percussion of

prima-donnas shout loud

the glad verbiage of

approbation and love;

glory, glory, glory,

in excelsis,

Melchior,

cog and wheel,

type and terminal of

the armies of disorganized chance.

Melchior, props we are

and we know it,

not necessary for your support,

but in your unwritten reports

signal us sometimes,

put us in your island scrapbook,

for we, too, trace your footsteps

and this, too, Melchior, remember

delusion we do and deceit,

when the harpoon of doomsday

pierces our gloomy backs.

 Landsknecht, an eine Mauer gelehnt, sich ein Essen bereitend -- Friedrich Kaiser

BUCKEYE BOYS

Just a bunch of Ohio boys
Takin’ in the Charleston joys.
Ain’t it fine, ain’t it grand
Bein’ in this sunny land!
Ain’t it fine and ain’t it grand
To be in this sunny land!
Just a bunch of Ohio boys.
Skinny dippin’ off the pier,
Smokin’ dope an’ drinkin’ beer.
Ain’t it fine, ain’t it grand
Bein’ in this sunny land!
Ain’t it fine an’ ain’t it grand
To be in this sunny land.
Just a bunch of Ohio boys.

Combin’ for the ocean shells.
Lovin’ all the Southern belles.
Ain’t it fine, ain’t it grand
Bein’ in this sunny land!
Ain’t it fine an’ ain’t it grand
To be in this sunny land.
Just a bunch of Ohio boys.
Driftin’ out in sailin' sloops,
Fishin’, eatin’ she-crab soup—
Ain’t it fine! Ain’t it grand
Bein’ in this sunny land!
Ain’t it fine an’ ain’t it grand
To be in this sunny land!
Just a bunch of Ohio boys.

Flowin’ robes an’ burnin’ crosses,
Black men bowin’ to the bosses.
Aint’t it fine, ain’t it grand
Bein’ in this sunny land?
Just a bunch of Ohio boys, Buckeye boys.

--Duane Vorhees