prose

The Piano Stone

I recall
a large rock
or perhaps a stone
that stood
on the hill
all on its own
shaped in no small way
like a piano,
as children
we’d sit
grandly before
like Ludwig or Brahms
or Jerry Lee
and tap out silent
concerts
only we could hear,
until of course
our interest waned
and we ran to play
on the swings
down the way.

The Mighty (a poem for Pete)

the randy dandy scallywag
atop cathedral steps
with prayers of lust and freedom
a self styled hero to none
pre-raphaelite sensibility
dressed in post punk finery
he falls in love
and out of heartbreak
while singing the blues
in broken latin
a hero from a Fellini film
never made but rehearsed
a million times
in coffee shop dreams
across the decades.

frail and mighty
just like you, and just like me
but most of all
like nobody.

All The World Is Staged

You say potato,
but then again so do I
(except of course when abroad,
wherein they have many names
for what is after all, just a spud)
So can it be surprising
then,
when
you see a step ladder
and I see a balcony,
a husting stump
for the dress rehearsal
of a Judy/Mickey musical number,
or the immovable
representation of an
existential challenge
in the story arc
of a rather bleak
and confusing
though emotionally charged
piece of Brechtian theatre?
Let’s put on a show!