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Heron Clan: February 13, 2022, Joe B
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Heron Clan Readings Sunday Zoom Joe Bonamassa
It was what he did
between the notes
How he filled the space
between the sound
Standing in the oil painted light
Accents of color
Bouncing off cymbals
and brick walls
As he stood
In the resound
Of sound.
His hands hung
in loose recoil
Vibrating from the stroke
Limp and disconnected
From the slick-back-haired musician
Metal sunglasses slid
To the point of his nose
He stood
And he waited
For the sound
Between the notes
to fill the hall.
It’s what he did
Between the notes
Like a breath
on hold
A precipice
not crested
That made me wish
For an easel and palette
The pinks and the golds
And the black figure
in vertical repose
Listening to his own sound
A still life in reverberation.
Nature
Sitting on My Stoop
I looked up to see, what
I thought would be,
A sea, scraping on a beach.
Instead, I saw the street,
Running past my door.
The drier leaves of winter
Scraping hard upon the concrete,
Rustling in mistaken cadence,
Like an ocean against a shore.
Center of the Park
Centered within,
the center of the park,
The airplanes fly overhead,
Sirens churn on neighboring streets,
Visitors chat in strides.
The bird's cadence, the bird’s shouts
echo through the valley park.
He whistles deep and he whistles long,
A clear reverberation
Amongst the pine,
Who are you-who are you-who are you?
Leave from under my tree, he says.
But I can’t, I won’t, it’s my happy spot,
Among the people and ponds,
I don’t want to leave from under this tree,
I don’t want to leave
This intersection of sound and breeze,
Centered within,
The center of the park.
Joe Bonamassa: Where do I
Joe Bonamassa:
Where do I begin? What you did with words was what this great musician can do with sound. I mean that. This is astounding in its crystallization of the musical experience. I don't dare try to isolate any specific line because it is poetic calligraphy that sweeps, swirls and plunges with the same stream of magnificence.
Still, I don't know where to begin . . .
Sitting on My Stoop:
Your manipulation of imagery that turns an ordinary scene into a surging, "scraping" and roaring ocean was ingenious. You sorceress of words, you are awesome.
Center of the Park:
Another everyday scene transformed into enchantment in your talented hands. There's a bustle of bright and whimsical activity that turns particularly charming with your conversation with the birds, those adorable interlopers in your "happy spot". You added a clever hint of self-realization with the words "Centered within", suggesting that all the natural beauty of this sanctuary was an inner as well as outer experience. Wonderful.
"The oil painted light"
Nice. Seas do indeed scrape on beaches. Favorite places always sing in the memory's vaults.
:D