the wonder of hands

he reaches up and

grasps fingers wrap green plastic

smiles proud chuckles

The Staves (Folk Fest '16 #4)

I move towards the stage

finding our staked out square

in a sea of tarps

and they start singing

blended voices soaring

over prairie

an eagle in flight

catching updrafts of

six thousand people

loving the sun

and the sky

and the flap of wings

as three sisters of song

glide their way into

constant commotion of our quilted lives

I have stopped walking to just listen

my feet sinking into solid prairie grassland

until the voices stop and I breathe again

man sleeping at Bur Oak (Folk Fest '16 #3)

take a picture with iPhone

lighter dangles in one hand

cigarette holder in the other

as he reclines

against tree trunk

banded cowboy hat

leather vest

white shirt

open at the chest

handkerchief around neck

he’s impossibly sleeping

white pants and cowboy boots

long stringy hair

patchy beard

aviator sunglasses

where did he come from?

this time traveler from the old west

this is not a costume

he wears these clothes like a layer of skin

and the music from the stage

hearkens back and connects us

past and present

me in my reclining lawn chair and

floppy hat from Panama

quick     take a picture with iPhone 

Alan Doyle and baby Roger at Big Bluestem (Folk Fest '16 #2)

celtic beats recoil

like beams of sunlight

reflecting off flower petals

and me with grandson

in my arms

bouncing

and walking

and dancing

far away from the stage

along the beer tent fence

his cries insistent

irrational

mingle the music

a very real juxtaposition

only my muted jigging quiets him

as I speak soft words of assurance

it’s ok it’s ok

and strangers’ eyes beam light

as they walk by

for they know the jigging

joy

and privilege

of consoling a tired child

it’s ok it’s ok

San Fermin at Bur Oak (Folk Fest '16 #1)

he plays ostinato

with right pinky as he stands

professorial off to the side

singers take center stage

intense baritone

sunglassed soprano

this is music for a hall

not this oak surrounded stage

with gray-blue skies above

but somehow we are sent

flinging through a wormhole

light years away

and we listen and watch

suspended in liquid space

a cosmic wind buffeting our souls

with constant ostinato

the little finger

of time 

saskatoons

reach up and pull

down

berry laden branch

choose roundest

blue-red fruit

bring to mouth and

burst between teeth

onto tongue

sweet juice creating

this moment of intense

vibration

standing in warm sun

path beside

wide      river

quick current taking

this moment of berry joy with it

north and east

through prairie valleys

vein carrying lifeblood

of this land

just reach then                  and take

Debussy's grave

journey in the heart/heat of Paris

to find Debussy’s grave

and stand in a flood of jumbled notes lapping at your knees

forget to bring a flower

but there is a rose

is there a difference between knowing it is there

and being there

does the pilgrimage make it

mean

something

you feel it in your feet

dust from cobblestones

in your body

sweating from Paris summer sun

and at your side is the girl

with flaxen hair

that you are going to marry

with Debussy playing in background

in a few weeks

a lifetime love journey

to the depths of the heart