Metered Considerations

Close your eyes. Let the string go.
Don't worry about your feet.
Don't worry if you know.
Just flow.

Do not dream. Do not respond.
Allow yourself to flutter
like the bamboo frond
wind-wand.

Energy will fill you up.
Invigorate your self.
Drink from the cup;
soul sup.

I will surely see you there
in your lotus boat
languid by the stair
elsewhere.

The road is dusty
but not the air.
It is thick with fragrance.
The rocks are hot and flat.
The sun? Furious and friendly.
Fence rows rise above.
On either side, tall, strong
green corn peeks over their tops.
The fences stretch up and away
over the hill ahead
disappearing
under the welcoming arms of oaks.
They edge the road way back
down the hill;
down from where we came.
Up the next. Over the horizon.
Cerulean blue the sky.
Overhead the leaves
busily rustle the breeze’s secret
held in their highest reaches.
Here we step, cane poles in hand,
can of worms fresh dug,
old, rusty hooks, newfound.
The dew lifts.
Her cheeks flush with morning
warming to the sun.
Water’s laughter discloses
the cool glade
under golden shade
where we sit on the bank
feet dangling.
Current washing off the dust.
Washing off the hot road,
and the weight of the world
We cast. Bobbers joyfully bob;
dutiful sentinels for the distracted.
The air freshens.
Our eyes meet.
We laugh.
We kiss.

I’m a guy. I’ll take the blame.
‘Cause a guy can’t see,
or feel the same.

Can you recall?
It was the night you cried.
All the joy between us died.
We were no longer our refuge.
It was I with all the rest.
We crushed your pride.

We had walked hand in hand
one with one being one
losing the meaning of me and you
in the serene garden of us.

You’d had enough of the world outside.
Not caring how much anyone tried.
Along with them you pushed me aside,
seeming not to notice.

But, I’m the guy. So, I’ll take the blame.
A guy can’t really see,
or even hope to feel the same.

I lived half my life without you.
I can’t believe the feat.
For the peril of the darkness
could have been fatal
without your light so sweet.

Just a sixteen-year old boy
when first I heard your voice.
Herald of approaching ruin,
striking to the heart
you signified the choice.

Though your message direly echoed
defying deafened ears,
my spirit was not dampened.
In fact, it soared;
rising to meet the coming years.

Angelically singing the missive true
as seen from above.
How could we sink to fear
Or fall beneath the sorrow
when it is sung by your love?

The banjo should not be found
in a university setting.
It’s not because it has no class.
No, no. It’s just that it’s so
illegitimate and so
it should always be found
where the student
is not allowed to go.

This could be the off limits bar room.
It could be out of town
at the bluegrass festival.
It could be part
of a blues ensemble
gathered under a big tent
subsidized by the government,
but it should never be
in the same hall as the symphony
or the opera or the ballet.

The banjo is best heard
out in the open field
under the blue sky
while sitting in the shade,
or in Tajmo’s hands
whose claw hammer makes
the banjo come alive.
And, that’s no jive.