Saturday, November 24, 2012

Sandy What were We Thinking (Paralogical Parallels)

Sandy What were We Thinking
Your Ivory Keys, My Breaking Strings
       (super-storm Sandy; right and left brain areas developed larger in piano and strings... see NOVA despite music unifying hemispheres)

L. Edgar Otto   Thursday, 22 November, 2012
       (Birthdays of many I know; JFK day, Macy's parade)

Sandy I wonder what you're thinking as I knocked on many doors
        (I do not know why I assumed so many doors were not open to me)

You cannot believe they will not open,  yours wide while the fickle crowd adores
        (My early adulthood living in NY and Long Island; involved also with music and musicians recalled just after the folk era at the time of Woodstock)

I can bring carols only through their windows, their eyes glazed, stained through glass
        (Love lost in its self or in its scars of mistakes or in its judgement of others empty and self-righteous, thru glasses darkly but I will only see your soul through your rose colored glasses)

Yours echo across their beating chambers within their shells painful egg teething breaking through, awake alas
        (It is easier to break out from the inside of a shell when the time is right than it is for outside forces to break into it)

Forsooth and Zounds, oaths no gods will hear, yet no curses can be cast, by Zeus
        (We alone perhaps and do not devalue love to devalue fear and hatred are the strength against a universe that may be indifferent)

Living songs lost in the wind and songs now past as you write each ecstatic moment what will last
             (Do deep bonds between people reach further than the stars and starcrossed loves, beyond the one and only soul-mate other?  What is the tragic loss of love, the worlds impediments for if it true if our purpose real and worthwhile can exist in the timeless and passion can be permanent?)

In the shadow drench of the dream ships your voice sleeps on the park bench would that it fill my soul more your lips
        (Passing by the homeless on the benches in the snow with newspapers for blankets; my own songs warm me; a safe world as if seeing the city like That Girl in innocence and promise while the metropolis itself draws us to its dream spaceships skyward and also its casting of shadows as we are surprised by the expected storm)

Some other timeless time that slips bass to falsetto
your joy to mime as dance and tune returns to sign
        (Ultraviolet and other doom and gloom physics catastrophes)

Its not the wind that pushes us into the gusting game but that you open up our souls more precious than the fame
         (Surely the arts raise us up beyond our lives of lesser purpose one of which is the sharing of parts of our hearts and souls with others)

So I distant knight in rusty armor fight for you at joust
Knave waiting while the peace come Sunday, no Faust
        (Another conflict in the Middle East on; romantic or not my thoughts have a practical realism not questioning to be or not to be or making superstious bargains with external dark forces)

Romance we troubadours teach the myth they crave and what better can your Sancho do twixt cradle and the gave
       (We want others to want us to want them says Sartre, love in general, perhaps of ourselves that we know love and love that forgives, not the drama for itself the theme, crying in our beer glasses country tune, what a scandal, what pushed down our throats of myth that is not romance that knowing it is a nice thing to believe someone is our happy ending and key to heaven)

But it helps to be in love for me to write a love song if you permit it, new vows and flowers,  so do not take it wrong.
        (Then again, chestnuts roasting by the fire, a Christmas song was written while in swim trunks on a summer day)

        (I, in this poem take the profound step of a hymn to all jukebox ladies and for Sandy in general, Her heart that launches a storm. I need to go back to write simpler lyrics, a return to what many can enjoy or relate to their lives in memories, match it with the messages and emotions in the music as written first, not vary the rhythm as if the planets are out of sync as too our heartbeats. Then I might just have time to learn my own songs. May they be about our loves more than ourselves- may you find the way not too difficult, stay as sweet as you are, not seduced by poets worth their salt in convincing words if those given in conceit or deceit. May you find your knight young and fair.  Angel watching over the great city that you so care.)

As I said, I woke up and it really was a Chelsea morning.

* * * * * * *

No comments:

Post a Comment