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

Tularosa Sunrise - Opus 15 - A Song

Sliding up, rolling back,
the tide licks the sand
swallowing sea dabs
and bleached dollars.

Waves signal
coming folds
spreading out
like skirts opening.

Salted and perfumed
wind gives permission
to dance with abandon
at the crest of swells.

Alone, watching
each advance,
wary, I tiptoe
seeking asylum in a shell.


Catalina

Cathleen and Chris!

©WavePoint Productions 2008

“Songs are sneaky things. They can slip across borders. Proliferate in prisons. Penetrate hard shells…I always believed that the right song at the right moment could change history.”
Pete Seeger

Tularosa Sunrise - Opus 14 - A Song

Tularosa Sunrise at Sunset – A Song

A New Dimension

Tapping my toes
I hear the wind whisper
Bring out the castanets
Slap the drums
Slip on my skirt with ribbons
Turn up the music
Move my body
Move my soul
Move my mind
To a new dimension.

Clack, clack. stamp
It’s a heel, it’s a toe
Castanet’s burn
Running a gypsy rift
Through my puritan child
Open to another side
Of humanness
Move my touch
Move my heart
To a new dimension

Run up stairwells
Cars squeal on turns
Parking structures fracture
With the crackle of castanets
Borderless sound
Spanish spices
A Gypsy guitar
Fan tremolos
Move my ears
To a new dimension

Slide down hallways
Spinning in layers
Kaleidoscope colors
I’m illegal in fiesta
An imposter
With castanets
Telling tales
In rhythms
That move me
To a new dimension.

© Catalina 2008

Cathleen and Chris!

“Music, of all the liberal arts, has the greatest influence over the passions, and it is to which the legislator ought to give the greatest encouragement.”
Napoleon Bonaparte

Lake Minnewaska II

March winds whip
across her slate grey body.
Not a boat afloat or a soul trolling.
Light presses through pinholes in the storm.
Unwelcomed, it shimmers, glances, bounces,
unable to penetrate the stern, icy silence.
The barren lake lies aloof,
shrugging off suitors
with wet shoulders and liquid distain.
No encouragement in her slicing surface,
she slaps the pebbled shoreline.
Icebound, hosting fisherman,
she seems friendlier.
Her virginal white invites extended visits,
she suggests a wedding,
a possible marriage.
Melted, she grows colder.
She distances herself.
She waves frigid fingers, carressing the freezing air.
Thankless, turgid, troubled,
she rocks and heaves.
On the edge,
cautious lovers consider her intentions.


Catalina

Cathleen and Chris

"The painter turns a poem into a painting; the musician sets a picture to music."
Robert Schumann

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

Beyond the Dark Blue

A short story

Beyond the dark blue ran a deep purple that bled into a thin white spilling out looking like puddles of blood. Silence. A shadow tiptoed over the puddles and left large tracks that disappeared after the rain. Yes, it poured that day. Poured like water from a faucet on the hill behind the small white cottage on the edge of a Mediterranean sea. Everywhere else it was dry. Dry like salt. Another shadow slipped out the front door of the house and slid down to the sea. Sliding out of nothing, its blackness slid down to the water and then into the water where it faded into the water.

The two shadows knew each other from yesterday, but today they were strangers going in opposite directions. One was headed for the town of two palm trees and a bucket of water. The other was headed for an island of one beach and a small coconut tree. A monkey beckoned the water shadow to come up out of the water and sit on the sand. The black shadow slid silently over the low tide and lay quietly by the monkey. The monkey tried desperately to caress the shadow, to make friends, to have a conversation, to make a connection, to tickle, to snuggle, to kiss, but the shadow slipped away about two yards. The monkey, in frustration, bit the shadow. The monkey with a mouthful of sand ran off to hide in the coconut tree and weep until the sun went down.

Ciao!

Catalina

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, the world beyond thought?" Robertson Davies, The Lyre of Orpheus

Rose-a-lee

Rose-a-lee sang.

rat ta ta tat
rat ta ta tat
tat tat ta tu

skuba bim bong
socka poka dim
rama rama lop chop
sopa hopa topa top
mama hippy doo…

Skipping over the rough spot in the road Rose-a-lee stumbled, caught herself, fell forward, leaned back, stopped, rolled her eyes and shouted, “ Hi Hoppa!” At that moment, a horned toad scrambled in a slow, side to side waddle to the dry grass on the edge of the gravel road. Rose-a-lee caught a glimpse of the horned toad as she swayed on the threshold of balance. Her giant shadow engulfed the tiny prehistoric survivor. He froze in the eclipse. Rose-a-lee reached out and grabbed the tawny toad. She swung upright and held him up to her face to get a close look.

Rose-a-lee sang.

tanka tanka rah rah
socka bimba doo
sawka sawka ratch ee
moma moma rue…

“Ooo la la, you handsome, tawny toad, let’s dance.” Rose-a- lee clutched the horned toad in her right hand, hopped two stones, then she sat down on an old stump. Directly, across the road from the stump, stood a road runner. His head bobbed a bit then he stood still. He stared at the scaled toad now lying in Rose-a-lee’s lap. Rosa-a-lee stroked the tiny toad head. She whispered “Tonka, that’s your name, you’re mine, forever mine”.

Rose-a-lee sang.

Racka rocka rumble
Kicka kanga bang
Socko blimp blimpa
Loppa doppa klang…

High above circled a hawk of giant proportions as Tonka saw it. He shriveled into his own skin. He was happy to find Rose-a-lee. He loved to dance. She did too. He could feel her rhythm in her songs. He couldn’t wait to dance again. At that moment, the road runner ran lickety split to the other side of the road for a closer look. Surprised Rose-a-lee pulled her skirt up over Tonka to hide him. The hawk circled again then swooped down. He perched on a rock on the other side of Rose-a-lee. He hoped to get a closer look at Tonka. Everyone wanted the same thing. Each one wanted a closer look, to be close to Tonka. Each wanted the same thing with a different intent. Rose-lee wanted a dance partner. The road runner wanted a race he knew he could win. The hawk wanted lunch.

Rose-a-lee sang.

Ringa ronga bongo bink
Simpa upa ding dong
Fropa sinko eepee wop
Clinga kropa fing fong…

Rose-a-lee soused it out. She jumped up, danced a jig, ran thirty yards with the road runner out in front, grabbed two huckleberries from a bush and tossed them to the hawk. Rose-a-lee and Tonka were satisfied, they had their dance. The road runner was happy, he won his race. The hawk was mollified, he had his lunch. Crunch, crunch, the hawk was quick. A thief with expert skill, he grabbed Tonka when everyone else was feeling pleased. No guard, he stole Tonka. He flew higher and higher until he disappeared. Rose-a-lee ran back down the road crying. She disappeared over a low hill. The road runner ran in circles then straight down the road, in the other direction, in a blur. One feather floated down from the big blue and settled on the stump. Slowly the sun dipped. Sunset filled the open sky.

Ciao!

Cathleen and Chris!

"Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places of the soul...Musical innovation is full of danger to the state, for when modes of music change, the laws of the state always change with them."
Plato