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Psalmody

crouch down
before the glowing remnants
of the dying world
lay sap-heavy fronds
atop the ashes
inspire smoldering embers
to consume resinous wood

hear the snap
as awakened heat bites
spindles your offering
and ghostly tendrils
acrid sweet and thick
rise and twist
as fire consumes life

reach out
into the smoky column
grab handfuls
of perfumed essence
pull them close
lift them
to heart to throat to hair
bathe in strength released
breathe in this final transmutation

awaken now
renewed refreshed rejuvenated
eat the earth
touch the skies
and with tempered soul
sharpened eye
sinews taut
prepare to protect
the life you would bequeath
to the future

Click-Clack

Most of my friends know that I my musical tastes, while wide-ranging, are rather specific. High on my priority list is musical complexity. I believe this comes from my having spent decades playing in symphonies and orchestras where deep instrumentation and complex forms are more prevalent. For a similar reason, lyrics are low on my list; this is probably because, after spending much of my life sitting in the midst of a hundred musicians, my ear has been trained to hear everything, and I find it exceptionally difficult to pick out the lyrics of songs. In fact, there have been songs that I liked quite well until I learned the lyrics.

As a result, I do not listen to a lot of popular music. The artists that do make it onto my regular rotation have broken through my—I’ll be honest, here—my prejudices. Perhaps it was their virtuosity or the timbre of their voice or the structure of their songs. Often the instrumentation alone will get my attention, and in some cases, it actually is the lyrics that capture me.

In order to stay on my rotation, through, a pop song has to make me feel something special. Joy, power, hope, memories of love, longing, serenity, grief, anger, a hunger for justice, the strength of true friendship. Something. A song must strike a resonant chord within me

That’s a lot of boxes for a song to tick. Probably an unfair amount of boxes. It’s not as though I actively dislike most songs; far from it, in fact. It’s just that not many hit me strongly enough to make me sit up, take note, and go in search of more.

Today, one did just that. It is unusual in many ways. It has a structure that goes well beyond the ABACAB verse/chorus/bridge structure common to pop songs. It incorporates recitative and arioso components, the latter soaring alone or riding atop a percussive ostinato, and the whole is orchestrated with strings, winds, and keyboard. In fact, I’d have to say that it doesn’t even really have a melody, at least nothing you walk away whistling, but rather it moves from motif to motif (I counted at least seven distinct forms). Most importantly, though, and for reasons I couldn’t fathom in the moment, it filled me with a building sense of hope, joy, and release.

That’s a lot of boxes ticked.

It punched right through my barriers, so much so that I went in search of the artist, listened more closely to the lyrics, and checked out a few other titles. I listened to it as a song, watched a stage performance of it, and watched the official music video of it.

Now, I am not gushing over this song because I think you will have a similar reaction. Based on past experience of sharing my faves with friends, I can predict that most likely you will not like it, certainly not as much or for the reasons that I do.

But in this current climate of dread and doom, where it’s difficult to go even two hours without some “breaking news” assaulting us with reports designed to enrage and shock us, I heartily recommend turning off the news and turning on some music.

Find the song that ticks your boxes, whatever they may be. Spend some time with music. You can thank me later.

 

And now, for the curious:

Not Who We Are

When we say that
This is not who we are
it is a lie

It is a lie
either clothed in chosen ignorance
or shrouded in collective aspiration

It is a lie because
we have been
all despised things

We have been
enslavers of millions
slayers of tribes
droppers of atom bombs
poisoners of air and water
oppressors of women
pillagers of nations

We have placed our knees
on necks of every color
at home and abroad
without remorse

We have ignored
friends’ pleas for aid
and denied entry at our borders
to those fleeing the same brand of tyranny
that birthed our nation

It is a lie
of the cruelest kind
when in denial of history
we believe the false is truth
to burnish our vainglory
whilst nodding acceptance
to our forebears’ crimes
absolving them
as ourselves

But even when uttered
swaddled in hope and
dreaming of a brighter future
it remains at its heart a lie
an unsubtle recasting of this moment
as mere aberration
and not the legitimate child
of centuries-long parentage

So do not tell me that
This is not who we are
for unless This is completely new
unseen before today
a crime unique amongst the millions
then it is entirely
who
we
are

Tell me instead
with all knowledge of our past
with all humility for our flaws and sins
with passion born of honest reflection that
This is not who we want to be
for then you will have spoken a truth
and gladly will I add my voice to yours

Take a Break

take a break
put down the phone
open the door
go outside
see the sky
smell the world
feel the wind
find something nice
a flower, a tree, a snazzy car, a friendly face
close your eyes
smile a quiet smile
breathe
and tuck this image away
for future use
because when storm clouds gather
and fires of anger rage
we will need that cache of secret moments
to bolster our resolve
with memories of peace

The Power of Y’all

Trigger Warning: The following might be considered “cultural appropriation adjacent.” (Whatever that means.)

Caveat #1: I was born in California, and have never lived in the American South.

Caveat #2: I have not made a study of this.

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Lost Cat

he appeared one day
four-footed storm cloud
walking up to our deck
like he’d been there all his life

I said hey and
he squinted a smile
rising up to nuzzle my
offer of friendship

he became a fixture
prowler in the gardens
riding shotgun on my shoulder
as he supervised my labors

but his candle was brief
his rumble now silenced
and his spot in the sun
forever empty

Cruel Winter

three shots, maybe four
from her ‘I’m not mad at you’
to his ‘fucking bitch’

five shots, maybe ten
to go from ‘Are you okay?”
to oblivion

two deaths plus six more
this winter of ’26
merely a month old

Cáceras, Campos,
Díaz, La, Good, Yáñez-Cruz,
Domíngues, Pretti

remember their names
that their dreams and hopes and joys
are not forgotten