Tularosa Sunrise - Opus 17 - Infinity

Tick, tock, talks the clock.
Smiling Cheshire, it mocks
The masses that tread ceaselessly
To its metronome of nothingness.

Tick, tock, the clock rocks
On the wall. The second hand pounds.
A powerful sliver of an engine
Drives the clock smith to an imaginary end.

Sometimes the second hand
Spins in merciless abandon.
Now and then, it drags like stones
For building pyramids.

The clock strokes the numbers.
Clicking, never silent, it forges ahead,
Trying to keep up with infinity,
Exhausted, it is trashed.

The clock smith is out of a job,
Recycled with all recyclables.
He despises the relentless ticking.
He hides all his clocks under a blanket.

Later, he puts them back on the wall.
Finally, he takes the tick tocks
To the beach and buries them,
Deep in the sand. He hopes for high tide.

When the clocks stop, the waves take over.
The swells pulse and a dolphin appears.
The clock smith wiggles his toes in the sand.
He peacefully sighs, resting in infinity.

Timelessness erases the time.
He lays down in the tide and is washed.
The dolphin leaps, flips, splashes and disappears.
The setting sun heralds a revolution.

Catalina
copyright 2009 Wavepoint Productions

Catalina and Chris

"I produce music as an apple tree produces apples"
Camille Saint-Saens

Tularosa Sunrise - Opus 16 - Purity

At one point, the man found himself
Walking against the wind in a suit and tie,
The sand sticking to his socks
And filling his shoes.

Weighted, he approached the water.
Standing still, the tide swirled up
To his ankles before he could run backwards,
To escape capture.

Gasping, he sat down and unlaced
Each shoe and rubbed his toes.
He stood with his hair blowing,
While he undid his pants.

The wind caught his jacket
And blew it into the air as
He drew his arm from the sleeve.
His shirt unraveled.

He pulled down his underwear
And stepped naked onto the hard sand.
Everything he came with went
Bouncing down the beach.

He gathered driftwood in the dunes.
He wedged wood together,
Tucking large under small,
Locking up a framework.

The sun warmed the sand.
The wind lay down with the lamb.
The man crawled naked into the
House and dreamed.

Catalina

© Wavepoint Productions 2008

Cathleen and Chris!

“For is not music a language? And of what is it the language? Is it not the language of the dream world, and the world beyond thought?”
Robertson Davies, The Lyre of Orpheus

The Lion and the Lamb

A wide grass plain
Bakes under a searing sun.
An elephant trots, a giraffe sways,
A zebra bolts, a tiger leaps.
Behold, the lion sees the lamb.

A hyena shrieks, a rhino rushes,
A snake slides, a crane glides,
A vulture gazes, a gazelle darts,
The parched soil thirsts.
Behold, the lion hunts the lamb.

Above the plain a mountain rises.
Storm clouds shroud her distinction.
Turning inside out, she melts her collar.
Ice drips down the sides of her cone.
Behold, the lion catches the lamb.

The earth splits with a humble sigh.
The mountain crumbles over the broken plain.
The withered grass whispers silent sobs.
The moon disappears into a starless sky.
Behold, the lion licks the lamb.

A canary sings a clarion call.
The pastel dawn hosts one shear cloud.
White sand shifts under aqua tides.
In the shadows, an orchid opens.
Behold, the lion lies down with the lamb.

Catalina

Cathleen and Chris

"As matters now stand with me I am no longer spurred to creative effort by ambition, but by the urge to communicate with my friends and the wish to give them pleasure: whenever I know this urge and wish to have been satisfied, I am happy and content." Richard Wagner, in a letter to Franz Liszt