Borodin, born Nov. 12, 1833, composed symphonies and opera, but his two string quartets are what capture my untrained ears. The second is about the most romantic music I’ve ever heard — though the fourth movement doesn’t match the first three.
Russian Romantic
Alexander Borodin
Plucked at the heartstrings
Chemist, composer,
Cellist, expertly arranged
Elements of romance
2nd String Quartet
Indescribably lovely
An ache in four parts
Marie Curie born,
Joni Mitchell, too: This day’s
Radio active
Brilliant but modest
Madame Curie coined the term
Radioactive
Won Nobel prizes
Both physics and chemistry
Nobody else has
There was nothing half
About her life, discovered,
Named two elements
Radium research,
Isolating isotopes
Saved lives, cut hers short
Her legacy lives
Her dedication inspires
Google her — you’ll see
Joni Mitchell turns
68 today, complete
Artistic package
Songwriter deluxe
“Both Sides Now,” “Woodstock”
Were hits for others
Her albums scored, too
Overflowing with romance,
Poetry, protest
Lilting melodies
Lyrics playful and painful
Confide and confess
You could do much worse
Than “Blue,” but it’s really hard
To do much better
Joni pushed the sound
Branched into jazz though some folks
Hissed her “Summer Lawns”
Distinct guitar sound
Forged when polio forced her
To chord differently
A fine painter, too
As her album covers show
Yeah, the whole package
Joni says she’s through
Except for painting a bit
Sure, we all decay
Like those isotopes,
Though, her music, influence
Will glow on and on
On the cusp of the Daylight Saving Time switch-over, here are some for the longest day of the year.
From June 21, 2011
Daylight, each day’s gift
To walk in the sun and feel
Its warmth on our skin
Daylight, each day’s chance
To go around again, flip
The next page of life
Daylight, each day’s spin
Revolutionary yet
Too subtle to feel
Daylight, each day’s breath
In and out, the dance of life
The rhythm of hearts
Daylight, each day’s lick
Of ice cream, sip of red wine
What pleasures beckon?
Daylight, each day’s tricks
Of solid, shadow and smoke
Memory’s missteps
Daylight, each day’s bits
Of grit, soil, salt and sweat
Elementary
Daylight, each day’s gold
To be measured and burnished
Squeeze every last ounce
Daylight and with age
It dawns on us to cherish
Each wrinkle in time
Daylight, and today
A few extra ticks, just like
My last camping trip
Daylight, yes today
We get a few seconds more
— To be spent beaming
These came to me around 5 a.m., a day I woke up before everyone else and just imagined some scenes from the previous few hours.
From Feb. 27, 2011
The wee small hours / Street sweeper washes away / What yesterday left
The wee small hours / Streetlamps dim as if to ask / Why are we still on?
The wee small hours / When rodents and roaches do / Some of their best work
The wee small hours / Cigarette turns to ashes / Dying like the night
The wee small hours / Bourbon melts ice cubes the way / She melted his heart
The wee small hours / Action’s harder to find than / A ghetto cabbie
The wee small hours / Train whistle marks 1 a.m. / All is on schedule
The wee small hours / Siren says it’s 2 a.m. / And all is not well
The wee small hours / An ER doc wearily / Stitches up some kid
The wee small hours / Scratchy Sinatra platter / Still spins its magic
The wee small hours / Couples drunk on love and wine / Can’t tell which is which
The wee small hours / Her fingers linger on him / Take their own sweet time
The wee small hours / Cramming guy’s midnight oil / Is three hours gone
The wee small hours / Exhausted student looks up / What “nocturnal” means
The wee small hours / Scribbler sketches the darkness / With some wee small words
The wee small hours / Agnostic insomniac / Can’t believe in sleep
The wee small hours / The owner then the dough rise / At the doughnut shop
The wee small hours / Life is primitive B.C. / That’s Before Coffee
The wee small hours / Jazzercizers rise early / Slap on the Spandex
The wee small hours / Do their disappearing act / With coffee, the dawn
Chill rain, warm salt sweat
Commingle in runner’s rite
At pulsing temple
Dry gusts, humid breath
Weather patterns roil and clash
Cloud around his head
First flake of fall snow
Crystalline beauty, perfect,
Catches day’s last light
First flake of fall snow
Beguiling Goddamned gangster
You know he’ll bring friends
B.o.A. woos me
Kills debit card fee — too late
I’m feeling withdrawn
Here I sit, forlorn
So sweet, so ready, just like
Halloween candy
Lover’s sighs, baby’s
Laughs, fulfilling work’s rhythm
Monotony thrills
Coffee’s gurgling drip,
Lunch counter’s din, dinner’s peace
Monotony thrills
Continuing some re-postings from holidays and other important days on the calendar. These two batches go together well, and I’m following them with a third one on the Hyatt tragedy’s 30th anniversary, and a fourth about loved ones gone. I know I do better with humor — or at least that’s what the muse usually brings me — but I’m proud of all of these.
Memorial Day, May 30, 2011
Headstone and bouquet
Flowers watered by the tears
Of those who survive
We honor duty,
Bravery, courage — and pray
For an end to war
They served and they died
Deserved more than medals for
Sacrificing all
They defended us
Our homes, our lives, our freedom
Stop to remember
We owe them this now
To live life to the fullest
And to work for peace
Headstone in the grass
Only one moves in the wind
But both wait for us
D-Day, June 6, 2011
D-Day. On duty:
Radio Man 2nd Class
John Hack, U.S.N.
Dad played his small part
Never talked about it much
Maybe in Morse Code
I’m glad he waited
Till after the war to be
A hero — to me
Nothing second class
About how he loved us all
And worked for our good
He lived quietly
Died the same way, enjoyed life
The way a dad does
Memorial Day,
As it should, each year honors
Those who died fighting
D-Day let’s toast too
Those who survived and came home
So we could be here
Hyatt haiku, from July 17
30 years later
It still seems like yesterday
The night the sky fell
The loss still stunning
The terror still real, and still
No answers for “Why?”
Life goes on — for some
For others it ended then
We recall, regret
Death comes to us all
Few get to choose how or when
In sorrow, we learn
From Sept. 1
Haiku for loved ones gone.
We don’t think we could
Love them more; somehow we do
After they are gone
Yet they’re never gone,
Not really; their souls echo
Louder than the flesh
In our flesh they live
In our memories never die
And help us go on
How do they still know
What we need? And how did they
Leave their best behind?
It’s all a mystery
But of all the mysteries, this
Is one of the best
From July 5:
Times few and fleeting
The beauty’s overwhelming
And life’s a postcard
Waves shatter sunlight
Seven thousand silver shards
Refract and reflect
Lone boulder juts up
Takes surf’s pounding, makes its plans
For next thousand years
Seaweed leaves, networks
Of brown veins, like discarded
PC circuit boards
Pop pop popping pods
On a long skein of seawood
Neptune’s bubble wrap
Panhandler sponges:
“Something to tide me over?”
“Here’s a sand dollar”
Pelicans in flight
Angled, prehistoric like
A ’60 Buick
Soft setting sunlight
Dusts the contours of her face
Unparalleled view
Fingernail moon sinks
Into its own reflection
Lights out on the bay
Fire pit, aglow
No match for the icy waves
Breaking in my heart
Quarter moon, chilling
Sends down silver white pathway
Splits the inky sea
Quarter moon, no rest
For waves’ mistress on her quest,
Longing for fullness
Words will lose their grip
Or join with love and kindness
To hold us always
Greg's Hack-u 