The Walk
I walk outside
A cemetery in the distance.
I approach the dying gate, where the air is thin
Where the blood flows fast, but the heart beats low
The twilight is near, before the sun dies against the maddening moon
I walk past the dying gate
Up the long maple tree hill
In the near darkness I've come to read words
Flashes of narrow light along carved  granite stone
I read the date of birth, the date of death
Like an eternal magician I try to raise a soul, free it from the moon's fate
But I hear a raven's cry,
I imagine it swooping hidden by the darkness
The soul does not rise,
My heart feels low
I walk the distance
Not certain if the cry of darkness will lead me home

Grounder
I pedal a bike as old as a memory,
To a time when I was as the wind
When I coasted down a summer lane
I pedal along a sandy diamond,
Where young boys play ball
I hear the crack of a bat
I wave eternal dust from my eyes,
I taste chalky clouds on my lips
We boys run hard along base lines
Throw a ball from outside
Field grounders
Argue over fouls, balls and strikes, safe or out
A hero climbs a pitcher's mound
Wheels go by
When twilight comes, the ball is hidden by the sky
The muscles are worn
We boys pedal our bikes,
The gloves hang over handle bars
The strongest rests the bat atop his shoulder
In the weary race against darkness we ride home
Tomorrow is another game against time
And I wonder sometimes what is the fate of those lives
Like shifting gears of a boy's bike
Years go by

Brahms
I'll meet you outside Symphony Hall
Where the violins play
Where a prodigy touches white keys
Where a conductor dances batons as sharp as needles
Where silver haired men in bespoke suits carry front row tickets and lead the hands of mink draped women in strapless dresses
Where they huddle, then move through open oak doors nearly as old as the day Mozart slumped into a pauper's grave
I'll meet you outside Symphony Hall
But in the hours past the evening performance
When the paupers come out of their graves
I'll meet you by the musicians' entrance
I got your call
You're a junkie now,
Since Julliard, when they said you were the next Stern
When you raised the soul of Brahms with your violin
When you stuck pathway needles of melted white junk into your veins
I'll meet you outside Symphony Hall, again
This time is different, again
When you'll give up the junk, again
Get off the streets
Start to play once more
You just need one more fix, you need money and sugared sweets
I'll meet you by the musicians' entrance
And give you the money, give away the strung out sweets and listen to your beggared story
Because, why?
Because I hear the crying souls of Brahms and Stern in your last, dying voice, again.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oykarLuFoS8

It Happened 
When you left me, I broke.
I shattered like brittle old glass--
Breaking on a hard wood floor
Shards cutting the bottom of my naked feet,
Not too deep,
Just little streaks of a man's blood,
Alone I sat on my saggy powder blue couch with old whiskey stains
I twisted my foot sideways on my knee and took tweezers and pulled out the broken glass
Small tears rolled down my cheeks, and rested on my bottom lip and tasted like salty whiskey stains
I called my friend Eddy and told him another girl left me
He asked if brittle glass broke on a hard wood floor and if its shards bloodied my naked feet.
I said, Yeah
He said: I hate when that happens

Rock 'n' Roll Star
Once I was a rock 'n' roll star
With a blazin' guitar,
Lit by pulsing lights and a smokey stage
Blonde girls, Birds with flyin' wings
Risin' to hear me sing, to touch and feel my strings
Once I was a rock 'n' roll star
But only in an old boy's dreams

Now I have been reborn to jazz
The grace of Coltrane
The Spirit of Charlie Bird
The soulfulness of Miles
I am a Good Man now,
I embrace the beauty of jazz when I listen to its reverent sound
But when I sleep, I still dream I was a boy,
...and command every time...
Oh Jazz Man Masekala!! Play your South African Trumpet like a rock 'n' roll star. With my electric guitar we play loud to Byrds with flyin' wings!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMoop0rn780

Ghost Warriors
A young boy looked through the frost of a winter window. He saw his father dressed in thick wool clothes bring down an ancient ax to split frozen logs.  The father put the chopped wood  in a large canvas bag.  He hoisted the bag over his powerful right shoulder as he made his way through the snow back to the farm house.

The young son waited and felt proud and secure as he opened the door for his father. The boy felt the cold wind and heard the laughter of nervous work horses from the stable. With his small, strong hands he helped guide the bag of logs to the wooden floor and dragged them to the fire place. He placed a couple of logs into a fire. They steamed and burned poorly.

His mother stood over him and spoke with kindness. “We have enough wood for a fire for tonight. You must sleep. Tomorrow we must travel far.”

The boy nodded. He overheard his parents speak of the same dream they had the night before. The same dream that villagers and settlers across their country land had: of deadly ghost warriors arisen from the past…and of the villagers' ancestors, without reason or mercy, savaged and slaughtered. The old. Children in their slumber. Women crying hopelessly for life. The warriors were returning—the dream foretold. To slaughter the descendant settlers of this land.

Were the horses strong enough for the journey? The mother asked the father. He said they were, if the road to the forest was not too long. They would join the caravan. They would settle and fortify behind the tall trees and kill the ghost warriors with axes and sharp tools. The mother began to weep.

The young boy went to his room. He stood atop his bed and pretended to swing his arms as if he held an ancient ax. By morning he believed he would be strong like his father and would fight the ghost warriors behind the same tall trees.

A Thousand Monkeys
A man stepped into another cold morning
Human fog glistened 
Human skin turned as red as blood
A woolen cap was pulled over his ears
Melton gloves covered his hands
He looked up and down the street and saw no one,
But he heard the sound of footsteps made louder by the slowing molecules of the cold
He heard more steps, like an army, but saw no faces, no human forms
For a moment he felt fear, but that passed with the gust of wind that sang like an icy whistle
Then he heard more frozen steps…louder and louder…but still no human forms
He heard the cries of screaming death, of gunfire
Then a thousand clouds of human steam rose up past the street lights and ascended into the disappearing night sky
The man pulled off his cap
He pulled off his gloves
He cupped his ears and then held his eyes, then covered his mouth like Nikko snow monkeys
That night he sat in a steamy bath and feared he saw evil but could not speak its name