—Poetry by Linda Klein, Los Angeles, CA
—Public Domain Photos
SOUND
I love sound. When I hear it,
I want to chase and ensnare it,
to place it here, near my heart.
Its astonishing echo resounds
with no definite end nor start.
I love to feel sound vibrations.
They bring me elation, the sort of
sensation that makes my soul whole,
be the sound a purr or a howl.
The word "sound" alone,
with its double-vowel tone,
begins with a hiss, soft as a kiss
and ends as it should, steadfast and good.
I want to wrap sound around me,
wear it forever, wherever I go.
I wouldn't care, should prudes point
and stare, as they notice I'm bare, but
for a vestment of sound.
HOOK CREEK BLUES
We were down by Hook Creek, my mother and I.
We had walked together silently from the house,
she with her tapestry sewing bag, me with a library book.
We sat on a bench, and looked out at blue-green shallow water
in the sandy-bottomed creek.
The water would have been still if not for a school of tiny fish
swimming quickly and going nowhere.
Hook Creek, in Rosedale, New York, I decided,
is so named because of its shape, a huge iridescent soup ladle
that narrows and curves in a swirled hook.
At first I thought the creek was named for an early settler,
but found no evidence to support that idea.
The ladle shape with its ornate hooked handle dips
and dishes up live fish soup to serve park visitors daily.
My mother held an aqua-colored potholder.
I saw a pattern of ladles in its paisley medallion print
as confirmation of my theory.
Soon I heard music and looked up to see a straw-haired boy
blowing into a harmonica, "Am I Blue?", notes that made the water quiver.
The boy, no more than seventeen, sat leaning against a tree.
He played so well, I smiled and cried at once.
A tear fell from mother's eye onto the potholder.
It wasn't only the boy's song that made her feel blue.
It had been just two weeks since my brother's death
at the age of seventeen.
LETTER "L" IN JAZZ MODE
The leader of the band
with his baton in hand,
feels a sultry sound down to his fingertips,
and twirls his arm around
to form an "L" in script.
Wildly he swoops through air
in pursuit of a firefly.
With a buzz, a flick'ring spark,
the music spirals into dark,
ascends and loops again to light the sky.
Listen to the la-dee-da
as fiddles flirt with lusty bass.
A l a z y trombone slides in
and joins the chase.
Velvet waves of passion tease,
tickling piano keys.
Drums beat our heart's percussion and
strummed guitar strings undulate like bumblebees
while the mellow clarinet extols our plush life,
silky smooth and calm,
until a trumpet—one stray horn, blows out a staticky,
sorrow-filled sound, soulfully piercing the night,
fright'ning a flock of starlings to flight.
Be still. Stay still.
Let it end as it will.
Weren't we living the lush life.
UNTIL THE MUSIC DIED
His music was water flowing
with great force down the side of a mountain,
an abundance of collected rains,
bursting forth in a crescendo, cool and clear
released by the power it had gathered over time.
It ran down over rocks,
a waterfall, lacy with foam,
to find its purpose.
He swore I was his inspiration,
an accompaniment to his spirit,
that only when he was with me
could he create such beauty.
I was flattered, but I was lost.
I believed that only through his music
might I be found.
The music was his passion. It became mine as well.
Soon the music was all that mattered.
It fulfilled us both.
I was never jealous of the hours he spent,
only thrilled by the thought of being a trill,
a splash in the glorious cascade,
until the rains stopped,
and the river dried,
until the music died.
INTERRUPTED ARIA
She sang hesitantly,
attempting to dispel her fear,
the way the heroine in an opera might,
when she dreaded a mysterious villain at her door.
Her pale tufted wings fluttered and her
tiny body quivered, from the flat,
yellow feathers on her small, round head to
her scrawny, pink, three-toed feet.
Her eyes, black dots, darted
back and forth as the cage swung wildly.
She trembled, toes clinging desperately
to the wooden perch,
while out in the hot, dry Mohave Desert,
approximately 165 miles away, near the towns
of Trona and Ridgecrest, the ground rumbled,
rupturing beneath a layer of ochre earth crust.
She clung to the perch to no avail, not strong
enough to withstand the force that struck
her home's foundation, the fragile creature tumbled
to the bottom of her cage as it fell to the floor.
She lay on her left side, one eye visible and staring,
Her body immobile, but for her quickened heartbeat.
A young man with hair the color of her feathers
heard the clattering cage and rushed to retrieve it.
He opened the cage door and gently removed a startled,
upturned, yellow fluff with his downy hand.
To soothe her, he patted her crown and whistled
softly until she responded to his mellow sound,
mimicking his comforting song. A calm,
loving duet by tenor and soprano filled the air.
STREET RACERS
They whip through deserted streets,
accelerating at top speed,
tornadoes tearing through air, whoosh!
Woo-oo, the wind wails for them.
Safely in my bed, I listen and wonder.
What kind of thrill—to skid, lose control,
careen into a tree or another car?
That horrid screech and crash may be
the last sounds they will ever hear.
A MOMENT OF SILENCE
A moment of silence is sane,
both human and humane.
It is not suppression of view or voice,
but time to reflect,
remember and respect,
to absorb shock and feel sadness,
a worthwhile choice.
We must understand the gravity of our loss
before we can move forward.
Hesitation does not mean
we are weak or uncaring,
but that we care
enough not to take rash action,
which may compound a bad situation.
There is beauty in silence,
solemn and observant,
that lingers in the air,
a fervent, heart-felt prayer.
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Today’s LittleNip:
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then shall you begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
—Kahlil Gibran
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Our thanks to Linda Klein for today’s poetry on this, her birthday! Linda writes, “Sounds have always had a strong effect on me. I have found that I tend to write about sound in my poems often: voices, music, or any of life's sounds. Today I've chosen seven poems that speak of sounds. The last, ‘A Moment of Silence’, is, of course, about no sound.” Happy Birthday, Linda!
For a little bit of soothing sound, click on the link below.
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—Medusa
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—Medusa
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