Just Published in Raconteur Vol I Issue III

Excerpt from Long poem "Along the River Po" 

 

 

Where these feet have never stepped before

now move forward in the Mind of Spring,

time to travel across a foreign country

delineated by those in centuries past

who have seen certain notes

dance on strings like sprays of dust.

 

When the river flows into the sea

in the early morning sun,

we close our eyes

to hear the sounds of water compose

the next tinkle tap on imagination’s triangle,

the next finger pluck of the violin string

ping ping

the sonar whistles of shells and rocks

on the murky river bottom

rise to the surface

in a gurgle of misty voices,

the mind stirring 

waves, currents and debris.

 

We see what we want to see 

and hear what we want to hear

but touch only what is near.