“Write a poem that … describes different times in which you’ve heard the same band or piece of music across your lifetime.” (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-thirty-11/)

My music lingers, in
my mind, my memory, my ears.
My music maintains meaning
down through all these years.

Music’s meaning may change,
age reveals new aspects.
New music enters my life,
new ways for meanings to connect.

A favorite song then,
years later, what was I
thinking? A favorite song
now, maybe someday to defy

its own meaning, as life
changes, music changes,
meaning changes. This is
the glory of how music ranges

The full spectrum of
human being, how it speaks
of the complexity of our
selves, our nadirs and peaks.

My music lingers,
long and lovely, loud
then quiet, soft and strident,
joyous, mourning, unbowed.

“Write a poem that takes its inspiration from the life of a musician, poet, or other artist.” (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-nine-11/)

I simply cannot picture you
folding laundry.
I hear your glorious voice
coming through cheap speakers
as I cook
and I cannot picture you
at a stove
stirring a pot
(Of course you stirred
oh, so many metaphorical
pots in your career!)
or setting a table
or just generally
tidying up.
Your voice, such a regular
part of my quotidian experience,
yet I cannot see you
doing anything so normal.
I’m sure you did–
you having been a real
person, living your life,
you weren’t on tour
or in the studio
every second of
every day. You must
surely have done all
the normal things
we normal people do.
I simply cannot picture you
doing them. I need your
voice to soar,
to not be tied to the
mundane of normal.
I need your soaring voice
to take me away
from all this.

“Write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind.” (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-eight-11/)

I wonder nowadays what music
I should play at my father’s
funeral. He’s still very much
alive, healthy and content,
but I wonder, nevertheless.
Morbid to mull over, and
I do my best not to dwell
on it. But still, I wonder.
My father grew up with the
origins of rock ‘n’ roll,
came into adulthood to
the Beatles, Beach Boys,
Simon and Garfunkel, Dylan.
But he was never a musician,
and though he loves his
music, he’s not someone
clearly defined by the music
he loves. My father once
told me: “I wish I could have
made something beautiful.”
I want to play something
beautiful for him, when
the time comes. I have time,
still, to make my decision.
We’ve reached an age, now,
when I worry – just a bit –
every time the phone rings
at unexpected times. I don’t
want that call to ever come.
The time will never be right.
There will never be enough
time. It will always be
too soon. The glory of music
is as much in the ending
as in the song itself:
Music makes endings sweet,
imbues meaning in
the ceasing of time.

“Write your own poem that describes a detail in a painting, and that begins … with a grand, declarative statement.” I used a sculpture, but it’s the same spirit. (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-seven-11/)

Never have I seen such monumental sorrow!
Never have I seen stone tremble in anguish!

The Roman Pietà composes a triangle,
From a hypotenuse of earthly rock,
Past the savior’s lolling body,
Drawing the eyes up toward heaven.

At the apex, Mary’s face, cast down in mourning,
overwhelmed by loss.
No mother should outlive her son.

The subtlety of veins in his hands and feet
Whisper immanent resurrection
and the promise of eternal life,
Render her anguish everlasting.

The humanity of this sculpture destroys me!
This is not a celebration of sacrifice.
This is a memorial to the grief of Mary,
a pietà in the truest sense:

Salvation at the cost of a mother’s eternal sorrow.

“Try your hand at a sonnet – or at least something ‘sonnet-shaped.'” (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-six-11/)

Becambl starkle metpo kerplotnic,
Deoben sergalny nem pokalny,
Flerulglio swatzenti velnutic,
Tetragabant glepnidich feragny.

Flogtrebit nergozop declimos brooz,
Trombolismut destribux pyseglip;
Flompergutsymyn soglop nerficooz,
Flibbertegibbit! Vengatsorepip!

Vecnatsigen greplamplibsebensee
Prebanseant sertfectan glieren.
Prebanseteal fertactinentee,
Frectanol glipantsett sesascheerin.

(Pay attention! Lest we fail to mention,
All language is a human invention.)

“Write a poem that recounts an experience of your own in hearing live music.” (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-five-11/)

I have a friend who says
the best concert he ever saw
was late-career Miles Davis.

I have another friend who says
late-career Miles Davis was
the worst concert he ever saw.

How can both be true?
He was onstage for over two hours
and only played two notes.

“What a rip off!” says one friend.
“But those two notes were perfect!”
says the other.

I wish I could’ve seen him.
I wish I could know what
two perfect notes sound like.