Classical Serenades

(1)

Color my existence lithe Lovespeaks,

syncopated melodies of harmonic Romances

set in Viennese waltz time,

photo-collage dreams

as when a telephone rings and no one answers:

they are singing in warm shower

below the Raxalpe Mountains.

And winds blow busy composing anonymous Classics:

Schubert beheld Music the way

a man startles his Lover

in Serenade.

(2)

River Salzach inspired a young Mozart

eagerly composing in sawdust Salzburg studio,

restless moist crayon fingers

musing his watercolor Siamese cat visions,

while charcoal melodies mesh with

little girls laughing in sandbox playgrounds

and wildflower doll parks

nourishing the boy’s inevitable classical overture:

a tender blend of stepping gypsy maids

dressed in rainbow shawls

blowing virgin red kisses to the setting sun,

Mozart gazing from his Prussian sun parlor

waving to the melodious dancers below.

(3)

Beethoven's voice floats beyond burgeoning orchards,

a Sunday afternoon frothy sauce,

bagpipe ensembles,

working toward a bass mentality

as further ideas birth.

With well-watered plants

surrounding his dear Eroica,

bending into precise harmonies

and bold chords

germinate beneath Romantic trolley tracks,

tranquility appears

inside waves of sudden silence

as the majestic opera unfolds,

while as Haydn and Goethe keep time

tapping along on ivory piano benches

sousing Bavarian beer

till they too melt away like the hashish ash

that lay frozen inside their half empty

unfinished manuscripts.

(4)

And Chopin’s waltz gently lifts the ground,

Mazurka's nocturnal surrounding these evening skies

tuned to our lives,

beckoning our days,

while grateful Warsaw showers

duet with each musical step,

vibrant notes harmonizing

eclipsing butterflies in flight

as raindrops fall motionless to the ground

nowhere in particular to go.

And old Polish grey suspendered men

pause at their writing desks

to consider each refrain,

recalling the agonizing moment

their own melody was dreamt

then vanished long-ago,

a perfumed treasure

lifted on to the heavens

now only visible from some once thirsty

yet now fantasized star

(5)

And I too sit here dreaming

upstairs in my Satori room,

pencil sharpened and mind well-tuned,

just another wordsmith

oiling his butterfly net

hoping to catch my next supper.

Paterson, 1981