We sat quietly, expectantly. Grey hair, white hair, sparse hair. Shoulders rounded with weight and years. He walked onto the dais, guitar in hand. Black hair, white shirt, blue jeans. Neat beard, easy smile.
What must he think, I thought. Row upon row of old people, in between elevenses and lunch, tummies gurgling with custard creams and weak coffee.
A wan June sun flickered some colour onto the stained window, behind the rood screen, and he began.
It was a gentle, intricate journey. A journey of butterflies, dances, faith and death.
The melodies lifted into the air with an almost subdued passion, and we were riding on the strings, the chords, the tremolos, under the spell of his hands.
And as he played The Death of an Angel, we tangoed with him, up, into the vault.
Yesterday we attended a concert and listened to an hour of wonderful Latin American guitar music played by Morgan Szymanski. His home town is Valle de Bravo, in the State of Mexico, where the lake, rivers and waterfalls attract the migration of the Monarch butterfly, (according to some the origin for the Day of the Dead festival).
I say ‘dine al fresco’, but you say ‘fuori’. I order a latte, but taste milk on my lips. I ask ‘coulda my pizza hava mora pepperoni’, you spread my hot meat feast with sweet pepper strips.
You talk about shooting, so I think you’re sporty, and talk about golf, or the little I know. Then you get out your camera, a Nikon a-forty, and ask me to take off my sweater, real slow.
It turns out that waving my hands while I’m speaking, or shouting, or adding an a to each word, won’t work on a date when it’s romance I’m seeking, its ridiculosa and simply absurd.
Men of few words Then one of these lads could be for you. Apply in the usual manner (one apple pie per applicant – traditional or upside-down, dollop of cream on the side).
Inertia weighs thick around me as I stare through the window. Pink papery faces, saucers of white, buttery clumps, nod at my stasis.
I think of a monotony of blue resting on white foam infinity, untouchable for a few airborne hours,
and recall the rushing smears and smudges of greens, browns, yellows, seen through train smutted glass.
I try to explore a thread between colour and movement, but it snags and knots and will not be unravelled.
I am linking this to David’s W3 Prompt on The Skeptic’s Kaddish (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/06/15/w3-prompt-7-weave-written-weekly/). Sarah David is this week’s poet, and her poem ‘Work in Progress’ can be found on the link above. Sarah has asked for responses of 12 lines or less, which include a contrast of images or ideas.
Cardboard scabs, a sea of silk, Or some such imagery of that ilk. The box implies a fruity touch Transforms it from this tasteless mulch. A muffled hammer in my head Reminds me of a fitful bed. The mirror says, ‘go get some rest,’ ‘cos I’m not looking picturesque.
Linking this to Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompts. This week’s word is ‘picturesque’, to be used in poetry or prose of exactly 54 words (mine includes the title). (https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2022/06/18/weekend-writing-prompt-264-picturesque/). Struggled to find time to write this week, and this silly rhyme pretty much summed up how I felt when I first got out of bed!
Lustred jewels and promises draw our eye, Halt us in our tracks. Spellstopt by words we foolishly took for wisdom. They’re no more than paste baubles. A cheap trick. Yank on the fraying string and watch them skittering down the path one by one.