Paris Day 4&5

Paris Day 3

Paris Day 2

Paris day 1

I love bluesy/jazz and this piece is no exception. It has a sweet mellow mood, befitting some moments in life, yet it also has an exciting pace lifting up the sweet saxophone's shine and hopefulness.

Beginning with a thunderstorm . . always a precipitous moment . .. a rainstorm washes over us and then the music . . . a feeling of awe and a sense of impending excitement . . . the music lifts our spirits as it promises adventures to come and a strong feeling of rays of sunshine through the heavy gray clouds. There is warmth.

The thoughtful sax is always a warm creature having a rich and deep personality. It projects a gleam of joy which lifts the mood along with the percussion and tempo of the piece. The rain can give a chance for moments of introspection and new opportunities which also fill the day with an inner glow and then after the storm. . . . well . . . the sun.

This song is beautiful and it reminds me of my time in Paris . . .

poem in schipol

The light is bright, no dimness, no dinginess . ..
in this atmosphere
it must shine, reflecting on the floors and faces,
and stainless steel in the construct
of this place . . . and all the carts . . .
all perfectly placed . . . no disorder . . . none. . .
all the chairs . . . immovable like boulders . . .
impeccable order . . . rows . ..
All these people
all straight and perfect,
tall with determination
built into their faces
so many blue gazes
and
all their little children
look the same
[except for the little girl with the big blue glasses
taped between her brows, a sturdy walk,
determined like all the rest . .
but a little off center as she follows
the rest
she looks for the dream]
the other children run and play and shout . . . like children everywhere . . .
shiny floor reflecting
shadows of the people,
people learning to have wings,
to fly away
above the clouds
to stratus as yet unknown.. .. ..
perfection is grown on these silver wings
of giant eagles . . .
high so high they flow.. .. ..
all the little people
wheeling silver carriages below
filled with their treasures
along the lines of the airport. . .
where all is straight somehow
perfect perfect white and blond
all in flawless little lines
flowing, slowing all in rows. . .
an orange glow
in this midnight snow.
fly fly away little one
you will grow
you will grow
its here somewhere:
the place you seek.
you come back someday
and ne'er again will fly away to find
your love, my love
look blind
and whisper
in the crevices of this deep black night
and see it grow . . .
a spark, a flare
and the wings will grow there
where you seek, you seek
you will grow
you will grow
you will see.
in amber shades of peaceful wishes
hopes and furies
glory and spaces
look and look
in glances of awe
you will grow
you will
see
my little one with wings
fly away fly away
fly away to me.

##
July 24, 2010
Amsterdam

You have to remember that I was extremely exhausted. . . to the point of hallucinations . . . I saw rats running around on the polished floors under the tables and around the legs of the sleeping people in the hard boxy chairs.  I also could swear that I saw a sports team of tall young blond men playing football in wooden clogs with a metal suitcase . . . I swear I saw this stuff (heard it too) . . . . .  and my very poor poem was written as a calming devise . . . I couldn't get any sleep in that place. And all the children, so many of them, with so much energy and happiness . . . when I looked at my clock it said 3:00 a.m. and I started worrying that I had the time wrong and it was 3 in the afternoon the next day and I had missed my 10:00 a.m. flight.  To my poor suffering mind this was the most bizarre place I have ever been in . . . as I meandered from section to section I had various experiences that made me question my sanity but eventually I found myself on the flight home . . . or at least in that direction .. .. .. or so I was told . . .

What is this . .
a punishment?
Is this Hell on Earth for me?
Do I deserve this . . . perhaps . . .
I do
What are you doing to me . . .
are you a demon sent to tempt me
and then destroy this trembling beast?
A heartbeat throbs and echoes across the universe.. .. ..
a woe and
I stand here lost on empty shores . . .
looking for the tide to return to me
to see what it should bring
from the far reaches of time .. .. ..
a future,
a past,
and something else that gnaws at my
bones.. .. ..
and why the agony?
like letters sent through the fog
locked away in amber glass.. .. ..
and the doom
of an ancient tree
waving in the storm
quietly crashing around my head
while the tide slowly moves in
like blood,
flowing thickly at my feet.. .. ..
licking and lapping at my stricken feet,
I cannot move
I am lost and afraid
but I cannot flee

and thus my question
what is this nightmare?
and you have no answer . . .
and you 
lost in your Paradise
see no course
for me
and I see none for you.

##

A Postcard from France . . .

When I fly to those faraway, mysterious places,
to lands foreign to me,
with a speech I cannot hear,
what can I say to you
without a voice,
that you will understand .. ..
will you see me smile,
when I look into your face . . .
will you hear me cry?

When I am there
what do I wish to see .. .. ..

Do gardens plant
spiders in the air
as they do here?
are streams of water
invaded by chimes
which sing and tinkle
so brightly
like the sun shards
   tumbling over and over
and tangling in your hair,
or bouncing on your shoulder.. .. ..
How does the sun hit
 over there?

Do birds have arms to stretch
up and beyond your sight,
yet give a music that like the
rainbow comes and goes
where ever there is magic . . ..
How do the birds fly
over there?

Are there flowers . .. .
little people in colorful faces
like precious gems
which entice the fairies,
in shapes of bumblebees and
things with wings,
that let a breeze guide their way
over your heart
as they search for the nectar
in all the living central places .. .. ..
Are there flowers on your
pathways over there?

Do trees bend down to offer fruit
at hand
or lift a child up
into the air
to soar above the heads
of walking folk.. .. ..
Do they do that over there?

Is there green so powerful
it aches the eyes of the living,
and whosoever walks upon that carpet so smooth
and soft, does it ground them
to this planet?
Do you find that there?
Just like here?

Are ways made smooth
and airs so clear
and temperatures
so warm and mellow
that they run like silken honey
down the cobbled streets.. .. ..?
do we need hip-boots to wade through
in our delight?
What is the atmosphere like
over there?
Like here?

Do stars grow like diamonds in velvet nights .. .. ..
and orbs of silver glow from high
giving an ambiance and a song.. .. ..
do we walk beneath such beauty
painted on a canopy
of awe
is that something I will see
in this faraway land . . .?

What do I want to see
when I am there ?

your face, your smile,
your kind embrace . .
will be enough .. .. ..

The rest is but a memory of time and space,
but you are the treasure
I long to see. . .
and will hold most dear.

M^^W

I neglected to mention that this poem is dedicated to all the friends I will meet, old and new, in France.
 

Like a black-bird flying in the night
I disappear . . . against the velvet darkness
of a sable sky . . .
yet beneath
the light of the white moon
I veil a fraction of that incandescent orb . . .
drifting in and out, I beckon for
your sight. . .
when you look up, you see me
and I see the moonlight on your
upturned face and the stars in your eyes
and your strength rests in the long shadow
of you from the moon kisses. . .
her light touches, glancing, dripping down your body,
pooling around you like a halo,
and you become almost unbearable to watch .. .
my little shadow
but a black beacon
whorling around, like a candle in a lighthouse. . .
just a small darkness roiling
the beauty of the perfect moon . . 

M^^W
(I'm not sure of the date when I wrote this poem . . . I ran across it today so I thought I would throw it in here . . .)

 
A wonderful cellist - Album from Magnatunes.....

    Second Sight by Jami Sieber

This music:
Doesn't make me feel  
heavy, empty or abused
Nor does it give me wings to fly;
It keeps me earth bound
and makes me feel 
airy and capable of
being filled with the
shiny waters of her cello, her poetry,
light singing reading
invited to smile,
and lope like a deer
across fields and plains,
running in the free air,
bounding high, but earth bound,
and resting in the shade of trees. 

Waterfront Blues Festival 2010

   Pretty morning, a few clouds but the day was perfect, the temperature was gentle against the skin.
The bus taking me downtown was convivial . . . the bus driver was a woman my age, she had a big skate-board propped up on her dashboard . . . a smile on her face as she shouted at each customer as we stepped aboard . . . "you're getting more hours on your ticket . . . see your getting six hours instead of two!" She had to shout at us, we were all wearing earbuds, listening to our own music. . . I was listening to Jami Sieber, her gorgeous cello is glorious.  But, unfortunately, the gentle sounds of her music were drowned out by the raucous noises on the bus. I thanked the bus-driver for the ticket and for not making us go by skateboard. Somehow, this woman made my day. 
   The bus-driver spoke constantly about her skateboard. I was so amused by her vivacity in regards to that meter long board with the bright red wheels. She had great pride in her personal mode of travel. She told me that if I went to certain skateboard shop, they would give me lessons in the art. Even as I was stepping off the bus, down-town, she was still extolling the virtues of going by skateboard to me.  I pointed my finger at her and told her she was an inspiration to me. And she was! This bus-driver didn't realize that she was speaking to a woman who believed herself inhabited by a skateboarding teenage boy.
   If my friends see me in a couple of months with banged up knees and other scrapes and bruises, well what can I say. . . I have a new reason for feeling young again . .. Portland is a wheeling town . .. As months go by I see more and more bikes on the road. Maybe its time for me to get a bike too. All this fun stuff to do. I don't know where to start.

The festival, is located down by the Willamete river, on huge grassy banks, where Portland does a lot of celebrating, and is devised as a way to generate canned food donations. The park has three large stages, several booths, lots of fun activities, thousands of people, many of  whom I consider aging hippies . . .

Lots and lots of aging hippies . ..  "What happend to us??!!?? We got all wrinkly and gray!" is my cry . . . But I still like us . . . we  tend to think we are young .  .  . and hey dude . . . that's my bag too, because I'm going to learn how to skateboard.
 The music was great, lots of blues, really loud music, friendly people, free food, beer, stuff to buy, views and did I say loud music . . . I listened to three or four groups as I went from stage to stage.

People were dancing, everywhere  . .. and the silver man with his glass balls was under the bridge near the toilets.. . Well, anyway I took a ton of videos, but all the music was too loud and harsh to give them to anyone to listen to. Sorry. I remember standing on the banks of the river, watching the boats and the traffic on the bridges and the people climbing up from the river side, the music was so loud it shook my heart. I wondered if anyone else felt that . . . but probably not . . . I am a little strange sometimes. 

A little video of the silver man 

 

  I had a fantastically good time and was glad I went this year. I ended up exhausted and when I realized that my six hours were almost up,  like Cinderella at the ball,  I gathered up my toys and goodies and raced out of there, down the ramp and the mile and a half down to the Saturday Market (another festival place) where I caught the train home.

Music Follows Me .. .. .. Like an Aroma .. .. .. A Golden Note:

The dark noises ascend

giving you a smooth road
over the caliginous sea
and the songs
lay down the route
above the depth
and hurtle you with the smooth tempo
over the deep murky waters
and the music fills the ocean
with its darkness
and you walk on burnished waters
because you believe
because the music gave you that
black road in the dark
with only one candle to see by . . .

Free music for professional licensing



 Easy going, gently calming
it takes you where you most want to go . ..
to airy sites along golden beaches,
and mountain meadows where.. .. ..
breezes move through with the imperative
to give you flight and
see you rise above the fray
and cease the strife
that wanders through your gray day
and a gentle touch of the music
trails you in the end
and you will remember
this little bit of peace. . .

Smooth, full of light, refreshing the soul, giving
special moments to grab, hold,
centering the heart while
uplifting, and those rays of light.. .. ..
they brighten your outlook
for that moment while you listen,
and the stifling heat is dispelled
by the cool waters of the music.
Beautiful and at peace .. .. ..

Free music for professional licensing