Classical Serenades

(1)

color my existence in lithe Lovespeaks,

syncopated melodies of harmonic Romances

set in Viennese waltz time,

photo-collage dreams

like when a telephone rings and no one answers

they are singing in the shower,

and underneath the Raxalpe Mountains,

Winds stay busy composing anonymous Classics-

yes, Schubert beheld Music that way,

how a Man startles his Lover

in Serenade


(2)

River Salzach rains on young Mozart

composing in sawdust Salzburg studios,

restless with moist crayon fingers

sometimes dreaming of his watercolor Siamese cat

hidden upstairs,

as his charcoal melody inevitably meshes on

nurturing little girls

laughing in sandbox playgrounds and wildflower doll parks,

nourishing them from this, his new mixture of

classical overture,

a tender blend of stepping Turkish Gypsy maids

dressed in rainbow shawls

blowing the setting sun

virgin red kisses

while Mozart, gazes out from his Prussian sun parlor,

and waves back to the melodious dancers below

(3)

Beethoven's voice floats out beyond the orchard,

a Sunday afternoon frothy sauce,

bagpipe ensemble,

forever working toward the bass mentality

while birthing another idea,

and the well-watered plants

surrounding his dear Eroica,

bending into exact bold harmonies

composed in melodramatic chords

germinated beneath Romantic trolley tracks,

eventually aging in tranquilly

thru waves of mysterious silence,

as his cosmic drama unfolds,

and as Haydn and Goethe keep time

tapping on ivory piano benches drinking Bavarian beer,

and at last they too melt away like the cigarette ash

frozen inside their half empty

unfinished manuscripts


(4)

and Chopin’s waltz gently lifts the ground,

Mazurka's nocturnal sounds surrounding the evening sky

tuned to our lives,

beckoning our days,

drops of grateful Warsaw rain

dueting with each musical step,

rich notes harmonizing

eclipsing the butterfly in flight

as dancers fall motionless to the ground

nowhere in particular to go,

and old men in grey suspenders consider each refrain,

imagining it might be their own melody

dreamt of long-ago,

perfumed treasures

lifted all the way to the heavens,

only visible from some once-thirsty

and now-quenched fantasia star

(5)

and so my Love,

I too sit here dreaming

upstairs in my Satori room,

pencil sharpened and mind tuned,

some wordsmith messenger

oiling his butterfly net,

hoping to catch our next supper


Paterson, 1981