Poems by JakTraks

Heart Rhythms

My heart rhythm is in three-quarter time,
the pace of a flowing waltz
lilting so lightly there is barely an accent;
circles spiral over the dance floor
wearing smiles and eye-sparks of joy
in the banishment of all but innocence.

My legs love the march and salsa,
arms to drum in a rock band,
my mind syncopation,
twelve tones, and riddled-rhythms,
but in the center of a cruising circle
spins the music that,
in the cacophony of this world,
keeps me synced with courage and love;
its why my poems are sweeter
than my daily contemplations,
so enjoyed for their salt and crunch.

Sometimes I fancy that any new world
must waltz into being, or perhaps,
will match whatever heart song you carry.

3/4 Time

When I entrain to the box-step
of the busy-ness world, and
only despair softens the fear,
I have left Vienna and need return,

my heart requires the Blue Danube
swirl and lilt to keep its lightness of being
bright as play across a child's face,

my mind favors the rhythm of dust motes,
my body revels in rock and latin beats
but my heart, it needs the nested circles'
sweeping flow and grounded flight.

Solo Cello

Voice of deep forest floors:
roots, stems, trunks of
deciduous and the conifer,
soft moss and wrinkled lichen,
pale mushrooms,
half-hidden lady-slippers and bluebells,
fallen leaves mysteriously moved
by small forest foragers,
bushes quivering from
flits of clandstine songbirds,
tang of ancient earth
mixed with pine and
decaying detritus,
insects huzzing,
slow slither of snakes around trees,
canopy cooled,
damp with daytime dusk, the
felt possibility of coming across
clans of gnomes,
winding paths and no path,
thick dropped limbs to rest on.

Cicada Crescendo

walking a warm august evening
serenaded by cicadas.
their loud and harsh symphonic whine
triggering a life review
of dog-days past. moving close
a crescendo of greeting.
decrescendo of disappointment
as I leave each tree behind.

sometimes one stands out from the
cacophony of temolo --
buzzing higher, brasher, longer.
a soloist curtained by leaves.
absent are any movements
other than my own. just one
long song threading all
balmy summer sundowns.

Storm With An Inside Voice

last night's storm, mild and tactful.
holding back so not to frighten dogs,
cats and children. some adults.
a diplomatic bru-ha-ha
between nature wild and domestic
spread across the night. thinned.
no sucker-punches rocking the bed.
nature using an inside voice for
non-violent demonstrations of power.
benevolence without commanding respect.
everyone waiting for the huge crescendos,
exclamation marks, the clap
that sends everyone under cover.
it never comes. this an all-nighter
working tempered for the long haul.
impressionistic weather where
any climax is felt anticipation.
rain delivered without the drama of canons.

Cymbals

minimum participation
maximum effect

calculated crash
more poignant for intermittent
presentation,

sometimes . . . an accent

more often an announcement
portentous proclamation
climax and release

fading beneath the frequent buzz of
strings, woodwinds, and horns

or sighing with the final chords
back to possibility,

orchestrated hermits
obtrusive and grandiose
two faces necessarily
at odds

Cardinal Flint

that morning
passion to write --
cold ash

pulling on socks
the intervention began
just outside the window

it should have been a cinch
to see a crimson splotch
against unblemished snow

but I never spied - it
sang through my choice
of shoes flavor of yogurt

and what to thaw for lunch
cleaning the kitty box
sweeping the kitchen floor -

without intermission
clear . . crisp . . bright
as if piped inside

though still feeling chilled
I let the audible flint
strike a half-smile

before stuffing it into
my emergency pack
for sad poetic poops