The Virtuoso
The stroke of a single chord resonates
through the amphitheater
Stilling the most tumultuous seas,
Haunting
the chilliest hearts,
Stirring
the stoniest souls
A secret song praying on behalf of the lost
and the hopeless;
Interceding for the bereft and the broken;
Reaching with the strength of the joyous and
the strong,
magnifying
faith and grace a hundred-fold with a single breath -
- a single note
struck with just the right amount of love -
A single tear shed at just the right time,
in just the right place
and then transformed into a
smile……
a sad smile,
a
sarcastic smile,
a
frightened smile,
a playful smile,
a sincere smile,
a beautiful smile,
a healing smile…...
A passionate rhapsody,
An exciting allegro, leaving its listeners
breathless
As the dance slows and a woman looks at her
lover and smiles.
Their lips touch softly, briefly
As the music turns to an ageless adagio.
Eyes meet and sparkle.
Eyes close and sighs are released.
A velvet blanket of sound soothes the skin.
Silk caresses leave a trace of goose bumps
and a slight hunger for more…
We sit transfixed as the final vibration of
sound
fades into the stratosphere.
Ripples of applause build into a thunderous
roar;
A crescendo of enthusiasm that feeds on
itself.
The virtuoso stands and bows, and for a
brief time
We are in the presence of God.
Saying
Good-Bye
I knew when you said good-bye
that the spring rain would
never again
smell as sweet as it did the
day when I sobbed
because you said you loved me.
I knew that the damp smell of
decay
riding on the autumn breeze
would settle deep in my soul
and take root along with the
tapestries woven by childhood crimes
and adolescent antics and love
lost
pain frozen by the icy breath
of humiliation and shame.
You were my sun; the secret
self who could touch
the irredeemable and melt
glaciers into brimming mead.
But I knew when the yellow
finch stopped his song
and the orchestra stopped its
symphony
I knew when the skies turned
darker and the air cold
That you were lost to me.
I knew when you no longer
smiled when you saw me
or said that you loved me that
I was left with only this melted heart
where memories distort and
reform themselves
according to the movement of
the sun and stars
And the face of the moon upon
the waves
of sorrow that ebb and flow in
the wells and springs, and the oceans and rivers
the thoughts and memories and
feelings
stirred in the cauldron of
hope and love and loss and grief.
I had only myself.
I know the spring rain will
never smell
as sweet as it did the day
when I sobbed
because you said you loved me.
But maybe the autumn wind will
wrap itself warmly
around me
and I will find a new sweetness in its scent.
Who we are
Bodies writhe and undulate
to the pulsing beat of the
hypnotic music.
Two women French kiss in the
corner.
Leather and silver spikes
glint in the dim light.
Madonna dyed her hair black in
the 90’s.
We look through the haze of
time
even as we sit amidst the
accoutrements of youth
Denouncing the skinny girls
who are
sporting
mid-drifts and low-riders,
Even as we diet ourselves
below the ideal weight for our age,
and
wear sleek silk gowns and remember
those
pink and white mini skirts from high school
and
the black leather still hanging in our closets.
We drifted across the lake on
a lazy summer afternoon.
Colors from the sky, trees,
and the city
reflected in
the water back up at us -
Reflections of our souls,
though
didn’t who we were at the time.
Jake said I had the soul of
the poet.
I thought I was going to be an
executive,
After a cooler of
Blue Hawaiians, the blender
memories intoxicating
your
kisses once were too.
Gamers stand outside the club
boasting of the day’s events.
Passers-by glance furtively
with disdain at the geeks
and
the long-haired man dressed in a kilt in January.
We sought to ease the rising temptest with Nine Inch Nails
and
shock with Manson monster rage.
The sick salve even as Sisters
of Mercy
cut
fresh wounds into my bruised flesh.
Reinvention is the tool of the
gods.
Redemption at the finest:
the
chance to be better than those
who
were before us, at least in our own minds.
Or at least to be better than who we were
Back when we drank Malt Duck
and
mooned over Rick Springfield.
How could we ever have worn
legwarmers
and fuschia eyeshadow?
Now at least if I don’t like
someone
I have the guts to be
honest. Or do I?
Touches of gray are hidden
easily
in
cascades of blonde.
Remy Martin tastes better at
We sip Robert Mondavi
at
the intermission of Giselle.
The Four Seasons is always a
good choice,
well-balanced. Balance is important.
It all goes by so quickly.
And in our wake we leave only
wisps
of
bygone selves
and we
sit and ponder where to go from here.
by Alexandra
Wellington ©2005