While I Wait
Every word I gather, I take a chance
That you’ll be there: my soul’s romance,
For even when you are gone, you still remain
Like a painting that needs no frame
There is only time between us,
And so many signs that will give way,
And on the day I have you again
We’ll hop scotch over the sun,
And wag it’s tail until it begs for night
I’ll never deny it-- you are a gift
For so much gone and yet so much achieved
I’ll be climbing the hills seeking you
Because you are so fun to chase--
It is what made us happy in the beginning,
You were thumping your paws beckoning me
Ready to venture off with me, next to the greenhouse
When the crowd was in session.
Every word I gather, I take a chance
That you’ll be there; my soul’s romance,
For even when you are gone, you still remain
Like endless pleasant thoughts on board a train
And when I reach my destination
I won’t be sad that you are not there
Because your presence will linger the air,
And that is prize enough for centuries without you,
And your trail will carry me forward again,
My sprightly evening star like a beacon above a vengeful sea,
Showing what light has come to be--
Only space lies between us,
And all that can come in a day-- means nothing,
When I dream of the curiosity in your heart
So many signs will give way so quickly,
Before I know it, I have thumped home again,
And your warm footprint is upon the grass,
And when your not there I will look up and smile,
I’ll bask in knowing I’ll wait awhile,
You are above,
My shining sun and promised song,
For in this endless repetition of buildings, bombs and squares,
It is you that I follow so fair
And every word I gather, I take a chance
That you’ll be there: my soul’s romance
For even when you are gone, you still remain
Like endless pleasant thoughts on board a train.
-Kevin J. Brazda
April 6, 2010
Fishing on the Shenandoah
Open your curtains
to the sight of burning pages before the sun.
Watch each word make its way softly into the glow
While children play market music with picks and wooded instruments.
The trees have given them time,
and ripped each day to shreds,
so that they can say, “we’ve made them mine,”
but keep they’re shadows wafting the mind,
they never go, they have all of time.
Look now—down at the passing streams –waters covered by shadow:
a combination thick with incognito desire,
and restless charm like aqua wire
then stare deeper into the waters meeker
what would the bottom say if it had a speaker?
pass on and see the clear shimmering bass,
whose scaly-sunned bodies echo color like brass.
Shake out your rugs upon the waters,
that you want to believe hope for daughters,
wash them consolingly,
red bold cloth turns dark brown in water--
dock your canoe so to Fly-Fish in the shallow waters
under the shade of both species: tree and fish.
Eyes closed, as you smile because of the sound of water
playing around your legs,
that sound whispers to you:
“Love the surroundings so much because they are silent,
and yet still so loudly in love”
Purple Velvet
Quickly, you elope with the nightly fancy
That one that is clothed in purple velvet
And it engages the invisible while you know nothing
But the smell, that of rose water, so full
Quickly, you elope with the nightly fancy
Again, a figure in purple, this time angry
And seeking blood to be thrown upon
That invisible something, so that it can be seen,
But the smell, that of sadness, so full
Quickly, you elope with the nightly fancy
Much the same, a rocky red road,
And that damn purple velvet again
Beckoning you for bowling pins
But the pins, are the heads of vanquished innocents, so full
Quickly, you elope with the nightly fancy
That one when you sit in silence,
And a tickle works its way up your spine
And your eye-brows curve like waves
But the sharks, they hide in those waves
And bid they’re time, for evening is giving way to dawn, so full
Yellow bush Driveway
In my old cracked cemented driveway
where I used to live and play,
the gentle summer breeze
filled my sneakers with pep and charge
to climb the tree in the front yard,
where I leapt with superhuman strength
onto the roof and looked down
at my old cracked cemented driveway
where grew a yellow bush.
Up here I can see it all,
from my cul-de-sac
onward I would dare to look—
at Other worlds down the street.
The binding sounds of youth would fill me,
chalk spread by small hands on asphalt,
someone, somewhere playing Crash Bandicoot.
There is no question about it,
Deer Park Lane was the Origin of something wonderful
My own yellow driveway bush-
a marching free lion upon pale murmurs in autumn.
No endless volume could describe where I have got to now,
don’t go looking for me in that old lane,
or in the bulb flashes of a Name,
I am charging by in all directions,
bringing communion to earth’s inceptions
like the birth of that yellow bush
in my old cracked driveway.
-Kevin J. Brazda, April 6, 2:30pm
The Strength of Strings
Feelings –all, we know too well,
Like storms approaching us on our
Little row boat –that we fear but still
We smile back at them
Feelings –all, we know too well,
The approach of dark green skies
Troubling our still waters with rain drops
Words from angels who wish for play time
Feelings –all, we know too well,
The instruments in tune with each other,
A romance of time that cannot end
As long as talent abounds like curious listeners
Strings –all, we know too well,
Awaiting for the crescendo and refrain
The promised song of god breaking quickly
Like damsels and swordsmen running
With haste to the cathedral door.
Love –all, we know to well,
Like a gentle snow falling in silence
On our little tea cup house, cold but –
Warmed by one heater in the corner—
Melting snow as we smile back at her.
Lost Poems: A Lament
I shed tears in my arms
For all the writings I have made, have been erased,
Either directly or have been lost in time
I still cry and miss them like they are mothers and fathers
How can I find them, where can they have gone to?
Maybe if I create a search party we can look through the forest
But the rains have come and the wind howls down the trees
And their leaves flip and shake away my hopes
And my eyes are burning because I have lost the pen
Where has the paper gone?
Where is the promised group that will guide me along?
But, suddenly -- such a gentle and ease of spirit comes down in the lightning above
And it scares me with its unkind delight,
Oh -- how can I ever tell you where I am going if you cannot be in here watching with me?
This forest of endless mockery and scorn, it shreds my mind to conclusions.
Why do we fight I ask so simply? Please listen, I promise:
I promise that the refrain is coming, the chord that tickles your spine will arrive
But first we try to scower the soil for my leaflets
There is a dense smell of tobacco smoke wafting from a house that I see ahead
No, it is a cabin, and a man is looking at me, he stands in the kitchen doing the dishes
His hands move rhythmically applying soap and a smile digresses onto my face
Because I know that his movements are like the return of spring--
And his form is the assurance that there are many tears to come before we can go home,
Before we can hold hands again: but I am also smiling because I know
That even though the writing of my early teenage hood is lost,
That man is still standing in the kitchen window:
Applying soap, lifting, cleaning and staring out at me,
He sees that I am part of the woods,
He sees me.
Playing Poker
Here it is, the, the entrance of this, this great, hopeful, majestic
And innocent child, he dances with his arms chopping the armies of the air
And the commandant reaches down to scratch his back,
The response from the audience is one of endearing emptiness
People, here it is, what you paid for, the entrance of this, this great,
This pure and unblemished child.
Do not do harm on the child that lives within, never dare tamper with the muse
That cold oboe and clarinet that elongate themselves onto the trajectory of sin
Try, how the muse tries to stay calm and remorseful and without canopies of copies
This is the invention of emotion, the return of what you have already danced upon
But no sword stroke is like any other
No sand pebble is the same nor -like the snowflakes—such clichés
No, the people seek for their elbows and knees to be only so sore,
Truthfully, only a select few are strong enough to dance.
Here it is, the, the entrance of this, this great, hopeful, majestic—
Just stop it there, the adjectives need to go, the words should remain:
But only in small portions, the music should rest, the cards are random
We cannot choose nor burn those who lose, but play well the tunnel:
When you are fenced in from both sides by stronger hands,
Engage in speedy prayer and swift removal,
The way back home is thin, narrow and nearly impossible.
Thus you must forget the roaring of the engines that echo
And reverberate off the cylindrical cone you find yourself in.
Go not forth into unreasoned decision,
But prefer the damaging truth to advantageous error.
And when you win, which you will, slowly smile into the denouement.
For a smile, a smile can command oceans.
Rise
There is a place on the distant shore
Where all is new and you never bore
And to this rock we gently offend
The markings on it that bear no trend
To the markings on our rock in our den
For call me foolish or forceful or both
But do not expect this to not help my growth
By speaking with toxin’s tongue
You have climbed that ladder another rung
Of which Jacob championed and fell again
For it is the nature of all the men,
To appeal to places, appearances and sores
But I sing not from a shallow bluff
Hidden in the risen cuff,
While I have avoided metallic chains, hooks and gangs
Where all is new and you never bore?
On that swiveling rock do you gently offend?
What I see is a swinging arm bent to snatch and erase
All of the most juicy wonderful dreams and leave no trace
Well, that is the battle,
We all want to call our rock the true and only marking
But call me foolish or forceful or both
But I see plainly --- many rocks scattered about this field
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