Saturday, September 15, 2012

Common Threads

  Francesco, "Réflexions"

A slow walk near a silver pond.....
while a pair of swans float serenely by
and seem to be held aloft
in the crystal blue sky . . .
a cool breeze caresses my cheek,
and the sweet scent of blossoms
wafts near
touching my soul
while the music calms my stresses
and I feel at peace . . .

A beautiful album ... designed to free me from fear and sadness . . . and lifts the stresses from my environment . . . a healing is in process . . . a moment is filled in with the twinkling stars and an angel's touch . . Gorgeous and serene . . . - M^^W -
An old review of mine . . . I enjoy listening to this album anytime I need to de-stress . . .


I see a tapestry
                   of existence
laid across a night
                           black sky,
the warp and weft
        unfamiliar to me

                                                  I watched her 
                                                           as she sat, slouched 
                                                   in the bus shelter,
                                                          her nervous dancing feet, 
                                    encased in brown shabby boots,
                            maintained a strict, 
                                                   yet open shape of a 'v;'
                        her eyes withdrawn,
                                she glanced at me,
                                         quickly. . .
                  dismissing my presence. . 
The shelter reeked of body odors,
                     old food, dead leaves,
           and tobacco . ..  
                                       her faded, 
                                       jean jacket 
            seemed to be lined with steel
                                         and kept
                  her shoulders from
                slumping as if there were
          no self-will left within
                          her thin frame . . .
                 her hand, 
                       held a phone to her ear
          as if she were searching
              for an elusive heartbeat . . .
                   and as she quietly talked,
                      her demeanor intense
          and her eyes sparkling with
                                  tears, unshed,  
                                          I looked at the sky
                  across the highway . . 
                                       which was unusually 
                   peaceful . . 
                            The day somber,
                                   though the morning 
                                               sun glinted
                    on everything shiny,
                                      as it slanted
                   over my shoulders . . .
The clouds stretched out,
                  curling, like feathers, into
                          the shape of a fan . . 
                the center
                            radiating out from
             my vision,
                         and lining the sky
                                 with thin strings
       of arthritic 
                                  stretching fingers . . 
                            gnarled and frail,
              they bent and beckoned
                             over my head . . 
The woman at the stop
         carved her anger
                           and confusion
               between her eyes . . 
         she looked up once more at me
       through her short gray bangs . .. 
                                         and shrugging herself to her feet . . 
                       slowly walking away . . .
                                she shuffled down the long sidewalk
            beneath the silver clouds
                                          talking softly
                                                           on her telephone . . .


ahh! I remember the ride, the other day, coming home on the bus.
I was watching this striking, elegant woman
and her companion . . .
he was wearing a dark hound's tooth jacket,
and a floppy fedora hat
. . . and was confined
to a wheel chair . . .
He had a neatly trimmed gray beard
and sat quietly with
a pleasant smile on his face . . .
as he gazed out the front window of the bus,
glancing at no one,
talking to nobody . . .
She wore a pea green jacket
made of linen, slightly wrinkled . . 
She had bottle thick glasses
which distorted her bright gray eyes
and yet as she slowly blinked behind them
she had a certain look of self confidence
and calm about her . . .
Her thin cheeks were rouged
as was her neck . .  a soft rose petal. . .
Her slender feet encased in white tennis shoes
and her black cotton trousers, by sagging around her legs,
gave her the appearance of being conflicted
. . . Her left arm stretched out toward her companion and
her fingers firmly resting on his knee,
gave her a proprietary air . . .
as if by her frail strength, alone,
she could keep him from flying out of his chair . . 
Her nails were neatly mainicured,
and her fingers were tastefully decorated
with a big shiny ring . . 
thin gray hair neatly capped her head, like a halo. . .
She held close to her side, a pocket book,
crammed to overflowing with envelopes;
which I think were old love letters,
and ancient bills . . . which she filed neatly
and carried with her everywhere.
When it was time for them to exit the  bus,
she was the one to unbuckle the wheelchair
and push her man off the bus . . 
and last, in the frame of my vision
was her fragile figure
leaning far forward as she
shoved at that heavy chair
making slow progress down the street . . 
The wind blowing her light clothing behind her
as if it were trying to form wings
of what she wore . . 
yet she remained weighted down
by her pocketbook full of treasure,
tightly clasped beneath her arm.


Having tinnitus is a 24/7 365 ordeal . . . Mine gets louder with the sounds I hear with my good ear . . . such as when children are screaming, the hissing in my ear becomes a private shrieking and actually hurts at times . . . I want to crawl into a cave of silence where those horrible sounds will subside . . . but my job, with children, continues and I must compensate my anguish in my own time . . .

My friend, on FaceBook, who also suffers with tinnitus, shared that she was going to try some sort of relaxing music so she can sleep . . . I suggested drones, because that style of music helps my headaches . . . and so between the two of us we found these two albums to be helpful,
or at least we hope so:


It's interesting
that both of
these albums
look similar
. . . 


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