I Cannot find a rhythm in the day

Standard

4.12 I cannot find the rhythm in the day (A sonnet)

I cannot find a rhythm in the day
As gentle fingers probe along my skin
To coax the rotting problem on its way
I cannot stand outside and reach within.
A tiny discontented grain of thought
As light as finches dancing on a bough
Is traipsing through where it should not
And leaving little cracks along the brow.
Now blood does not move merry in the vein
Pulsing angrily beneath the eyes
My fingertips work circles, but in vain
Then defeated reach out for supplies.
When headaches think they’ve just secured the win
That the is the time to take the aspirin.

****

4.13

I can hear the busker approach across the sand
I’ve heard his tinkering from up the hill
And prayed he was luncheon entertainment only.
Sadly, he parks next to our umbrella
And starts to sing
Bienvenue, bienvenue
Bienvenue a Guinee

I want to be lulled to rest by the crashing incoming tide
Not by an improvisational musician
Bienvenue a Guinee
Bienvenue a la plage

It’s not an unpleasant sound, the guitar
Metal picks suspended over a gourd-like belly
Bienvenue a la plage
La plage est jolie-eh-eh

But it’s tin whistle plinking
Plink, plunk, plink, plunk
Bienvenue Monsier
Bienvenue Madame

I sit up abruptly and shove money at him
It disappears instantly and slyly into that big-bellied instrument
Merci, merci Madame
Bienvenue, bienvenue….

Riffing

Standard

Riffing: Airport: Astaire’s Fascinating Rhythm Part I

(A stream of consciousness poem)

I’m sitting but not still

I’m drumming digits quick and repetitious until

You walk through my peripheral vision

A vision of potential, of a shared beat

Will you remain my refrain?

Will you create heat?

My thumb ceases making up tempos,

And in rapid succession fall

Index, middle, ring, pinkie

all come to rest upon the armrest

of my uncomfortable chair

and I am, finally,

.Still.

Until

You reach my other peripheral

And keep on walking down the terminal

Because you were but a syncopation

And not my crescendo

Not my coda

You create staccato

I am not one to

Get up and move, dance, emulate movies

Or create unnecessary heartache,

Rather let my fingers go back to drumming

Except now I’m humming

A merry tune of nothing

Since a syncopating rhythm

Was Astaire’s way of saying

Breaking a beat

Can be sweet.

Don’t you think?

Boredom can lead to wonderful exercises in creativity. Boredom allows for the most intricate daydreams.

But boredom can be boring, so better to do something.

Like write.