MySpace.com - Chana & the Guy - 56 - Male - Nevada

Poetry

Unbridled passion the legacy of man, once past the bubble, travels the universe forever

The tall timber lightly listed,
and the old man, shutting down his menacing saw
with a flick of his thumb took several steps back
as the crisp crack
resonated through the depth of forest
permeating all with its clarity.

The solid spruce boldly cried out one last time
with a significant roar rushing headlong toward the ground
to embrace a new path, a new journey.
The old man, feeling a tinge of remorse,
wiped the sweat from his forehead
as he walked slowly over to the fallen giant.

Timbre will leave the land, follow man, follow Voyager I and II.
Hindered not by mass,
it will cross the outermost,
transverse the heliospheric bubble,
where the solar winds will blow.

At the mill, another man, a caring man
gently runs his hand along the smooth tight grain.
He smiles, and the craftsman's eye gleams.
This was a fine piece of wood, he thought to himself.
A caring man, he would take this wood home.
He would give this wood life.

With the care and passion of Cristofori of Italy,
the craftsman let lay his patterns on the wood,
tracing there every nuance and subtle curve.
He will pour his very soul into this wood
to give it life
as so many he has before.

Timbre will leave the land, follow man, follow Voyager I and II.
Hindered not by mass,
it will cross the outermost,
transverse the heliospheric bubble,
where the solar winds will blow.

Iron, carbon and silicon, carbon steel glowing bright
radiance of the sun as it pours into the sand, into the cast
so much stronger this way
for it is so that
longer pianos with longer strings
have better sound and little inharmonicity.

Delicious, lustrous layers of satin black
lay on thick, gleaming like candy
sealing tightly a hardened finish.
The master’s hands polish brightly
every metric measure of
this his tour de force.

Timbre will leave the land, follow man, follow Voyager I and II.
Hindered not by mass,
it will cross the outermost,
transverse the heliospheric bubble,
where the solar winds will blow.

In the artist’s room
dark and filled with creative gloom
she searches hard for but a single note.
It must follow an accidental sharp
stepping up a single semitone
and help to match her soulful moan.

Her fleshy fingers tease and
then appease hitting hard the ivory keys
striking felt hammered chords
that vibrate then the steely strings
and bring to life
this timber’s lucid dreams.

Timbre will leave the land, follow man, follow Voyager I and II.
Hindered not by mass,
it will cross the outermost,
transverse the heliospheric bubble,
where the solar winds will blow.

G. Thomas Edwards

Simply Complicated
for Chana

There is a fog that lies between
the hills of either or
Inversions here turn upside down
clouding mind and soul

We try so hard to touch and feel
the real that’s really not
Blind we are in fog so thick
and need to trust our hearts

Disparities that dance with us
and tell us so much more
Between the poles of black and white
infinity controls

Mountains rise above the mist
         painted Thalo Green
An artist’s single stroke
         simple smooth and clean

But in the dark of forest deep
         lies chaos on the floor
Twisted trunks and ragged stumps
         a perfect harmony

Yen and Yang
young and old
A man a woman
hot and cold

If you can touch, it is for naught
truth goes deep beyond the core
You cannot touch but know it‘s there
buried deep within your soul

The simple complicicity
         of life is all around
the fleetness of a smile
         will last eternity…

It is and always will be
         for God does not keep score
Reality can only be
         our thoughts and nothing more

G. Thomas Edwards

ArtSoul

For Chris Webster of Mumbo Gumbo

Soulfully sad and gentle eyes gaze down toward the floor…
reading nonexistent memories of loves and lives Shakespearian
penned now in subtle harmonies
to several minor chords

You see the corner of a pouting lip gives her ruse away
it breaks the plane of hopefulness
curling up to meet my gaze
and tells me she is happy here… keeping pain at bay

Her tousled hair and hippie face I’ve been with…
been with somewhere, somewhere once before.
The glint that rises from her eye
gives rise to so much more

She lifts her head and stares at me
and so begins to sing
and fills my soul vivaciously
with love, with life… with each and every little thing

Would that paint flow from my brush
as lyrics off her lips.
then would I be satisfied…
and very, very rich!

G Thomas Edwards

An Experiential Moment!

(like Phaedrus, in his search for the elusive definition of Quality)

At times it seems so very clear...
dancing near the Ethereal
that if I try, I can slide
         my hand through…
         teasing what then lies
         upon the other side.
And bathe in what cannot…
         nor really does exist.

Then like cone shaped curves
of space and time,
the gravity
         the life candy
         it pulls me down…
         in slow decreasing concentricity.
Back to here… back to her
         back to Mother Earth

Realities’ perfection
demands both good and bad.
Where love is pure
         there evil lurks
         to lend a helping hand.
         You can love or you can hate
and shan’t be judged, it is just a part
         of this God’s modest plan.

It’s there,
I know it is.
I sense the noise, the oozing goo
         that floats outside my own.
         Binary scripts that redefine
         all there is to know.
A singularity amongst the strings
         harmonic contradictories.

I alone must choose
my paths.
The learning curve
         of who I am
         against who am
         I not.
And choose I will to further
         my Urantian desires.

Though chance does play
momentous parts
the essence of pre-written…
         For destiny it seems so real
         and pain is something
         we can feel.
But when you leave… real is gone
         leaving only reminiscences.

So what is bona fide and factual?
Yin & Yang’s creative force
reality impotent?
         Is it matter,
         is it energy,
         or just intangibles…
so that what you take you’ll only touch
         in an experiential moment

G Thomas Edwards

Hippie

... on hearing Sarah Mclachlan

With eyes almost closed,
her hands gently slide the length
of microphone
never touching
reflecting chrome

Shimmering sea of iridescent
blue before...
vignetting to the blackness
filled with scores of
throbbing strobes

Sweat stains
leather wristed jewels
shredded knees
of
torn jeans

Making love
to what she
loves
Maxfield Parrish
Ecstasy

Angelic voice
echoes
cosine waves of time
harmonize
and realign

I was there in ‘74
was she?
How can it be
reaping joy… dark, morose
and beautiful

Monumental
changes to our
universe
were only child’s
first idyllic infant, baby steps

Applause from
those
who shared that time
grateful now
to feel once more

A hint of
smile
upon her lips
I know she knows...
how to trip

Lights go low
and silence
screams
years of
long lost memories

G Thomas Edwards

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