He composed the piece for violabecauselike every composerwho ever composed a piece for viola,he was in love with a violist. I wonder if she knowswhat she createdas his muse. If she celebrates,Or sinks inside herself,when she hears the low C sing. The unmoved moverwith cause of attractionextracting beautyfrom the mind of the manwho remembers her…
A friend of virtuedoesn’t wear the same size shoeOr sit in the cubicle next to you.She didn’t appear because you happened to be alphabetically compatible and sitting in a row. At least that’s not why she was chosen more than other people who wear size 9, or prairie dog in that long-forgotten secretarial pool, or…
Full of joy and laughter and loveMy parents gave me few choresNo ultimatumsI never was groundedOr punishedI learned to criticize myself for every flawAnd correct others creating boundariesWhere I had none. My mother was a musicianA concert harpist who played in four symphoniesOf south LouisianaAnd weddings on most weekendsShe played nearly 10,000 weddings in 40…
The first thing I learned about the violinWas to move my bow with the other bowsNot to position my hands, or count the tempoBut that the dance of the bow on the stringsAnd the look of the group mattered moreThan the sounds we produced.Making a note, and moving my bowI sounded like a dying catScratching…
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I don’t need to write another poem about youHow ironic this poemIs about you.But this is the lastI don’t need to hear another poem about youOr hear a poem about love or hate and think it's about you. Because this is the last time I'll think about youWhen I hear the word Love. or hate.…
A celebration of silence BecomesA celebration of the creak of the chairThe crack of his neck,The knock of her bonesThe cough of the manConsidering his coffinThe shuffle of feet Obviously stressed by the stillnessThe creak of a kneeThe chair againA sigh of settling for someone Who sighsDuring the moments set asideFor silent meditation And a celebration of tiny soundsinstead of silence.
