Pinned toot

Perhaps I need to do another here, since it has been some time since I did it last. My regular forays here include composing , writing , sharing and other connected sharing threads. If you write there, I'll try to respond. I may even remix as a way to honor your writing. I try to keep my heart and mind open.

For friends among the hashtags I regularly use -- etc -- I am going to pull back in most digital spaces for the month of July (as I do every year). I may still jump in now and then, but nothing with any regularity. I hope you all keep writing.

rain blooms

here, smoothing

but temporary

present time

Finally gathered up into a Bandcamp collection all of the tracks and songs that I have been making/writing/recording since the start of the Pandemic. It's more of a curation effort on my part than anything else, so I have them all in one place. The project is called Notes from a Quiet Corner.

dogtrax boosted

Ours Poetica is a wonderful YouTube channel that I think everyone should subscribe to (via NewPipe or RSS, of course!) Reading #Poetry yourself is enjoyable, sure. But listening to it being read by someone for whom the poem means something special ads another layer of emotion to it.
Here is a recent one that I liked: Hank Green reading a funny, yet educational and surprisingly deep poem about aphids.

becomes us,

A gentle reckoning
of day's faded light
into soft dark
of night

Writers and poets
reside in these seams,
the seconds between
dawn and dusk,

fingering the rust
and breaking the husk
of memory and dreams

“I was engrossed in the film playing across the apartment walls. I had forgotten myself in her story, had lost my way, willingly, until she reached back and swatted my thigh. ‘Hey, don’t fall asleep on me now!’ But I wasn’t asleep.”

-- from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong, page 23

Someone told me
I need to look beneath
the sweeping veins
of the big oak, to root
around dry soil with
bare fingers, to place
my ears upon the Earth
and listen with eyes closed
in order to understand
the origins of inspiration
but all I hear, here, is my
own voice, cracked
and rattled, reminding me
of all I need to be doing
before all of this gets
anywhere close to written

“Undersea cables link people — in rich nations, first — but the earth itself always stands in the way. To determine the route of an undersea cable requires navigating a maze of economics, geopolitics and topography.”

-- from Tubes by Andrew Blum, page 198

just some
words just
some chords
some melody
just a song
nothing more
than a moment
like that

This is likely the last song of my pandemic music collection ... now gathering them all up for Bandcamp ...

While you
look to the
waves, my
eyes scan
the skies -
your current,
my wind;
my wind,
your current


to the point
of exhaustion

near the edge
of consciousness

on the border
of liquid

by the boundary
of activity

with the prospect
of rejuvenation


I'll be the first
to admit, my feet
don't leap like
they should;
but they've marched
when they could

my feet've paused,
on pavement,
when they rally
against injustice
paused at the brink
but not one step

they've stood, to shout,
and broken rules, no doubt,
caused us to wonder
and worry at the progress
not yet coming about

I wonder, at times,
if my feet don't come
equipped with my mind


Think chords
finger acrobatics
on the fretboard
strange unusual
calling for left
hand dexterity
as the right hand
hits the down
beat with the
on the concrete
yet the left struggles
to remember
that working
together makes
something close
to music

for (theme: memory poem)

its adjacencies
small trajectories
blue notes
ghost notes
lost notes
the gaps
of possibilities
maybe the yes
is a lost no hidden
beneath stone,
our fingers
share the weight
of lifting
the unknown

for @tellio

Gravel-voiced troubadour,
my ears are ringing
with your singing,
the way you're always
bringing characters
into song;

A lyric
is a poem
is a story
is a commentary,
exposing shadowed light
with a turn of phrase
forgotten in the night

We're all still lifting
so many songs of self,
sixty years of music
sleeves, yet you belong
to somewhere else

I'm listening,
I'm listening

I'm here in this space
of song with your horn,
reveling in the something
beyond echoes of Shepp,
Shorter, Bird, Cannonball,
Kirk, Sanders, Trane;

This exquisite, complicated
melody brushing up against
rhythm, heartbeat, rhythm
as you're singing your history,
with your saxophone,

and I'm listening,
I'm listening

dogtrax boosted

May your losses
be borne up,
lifted by a kite
that they
may fly on.
Let the string

The bluesman
growls of the train
in the distance



Be the pin-drop
on my vinyl –
the warped, scratched
sounds, spinning -
we're cut, carved, grooved;
the heart, remembers
the ear won't forget
the past is etched
forever in art,
while the body on
these feet still shuffle
and move

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