All Poems here were written by me and belong to me! No stealing. Trust me on this, it is NOT easier to beg forgiveness from me than to ask permission. Asking me before trying to use something of mine will generally yield happy good responses. `Forgetting` to ask will bring all of my considerable negative attention onto your personage.


(This is part of a group of poems. I'm only going to show two of them here though. This poem is dedicated to the two inspirations: Robert Keitling and Kirk Miller, cello players.

Musician's Hands

Flowing, weaving, and waving
Like spidersilk in the wind
Over thick strings, vibrating.
The sound of music
Flows out over the audience.
Sometimes slow, like honey,
Sometimes fast, in a waterfall.

Swift, soft, gentle movements,
Making the lifeless box
A living entity with but a caress.
Giving the instrument voice-
Voice to shout, cry, and sing.
Its soul pours out in unabashed clarity upon all.

Ah, but the watchful eye
Upon those talented fingers,
They can see slightly more.

The instrument is nothing separate,
Nothing different from the player.
Rather, it is part of the whole,
Letting the man pour out himself,
Where before he could not.
He lets
his soul sing and cry,
With a swift, stern motion
Upon thick, smooth music strings.

A reflection upon the musician,
His hands never quite still,
Always thinking of something.
But always the most livid
When absorbed in his music.
Otherwise, he is normal
But known somehow, by his hands...




(This is the second of the Musician's poems that I am putting here. This particular poem is dedicated to Shamus Conroy, a fellow violinist, but much better than I could ever hope to be. He plays at Bunratty Castle in Ireland. I wrote this up and mailed it to him the day after I heard him [I try to send copies to those who inspire my poetry]. He has asked me for permission to publish this piece with a CD of Bunratty music that will be out soon. I said yes, (See, I am nice about this sort of thing, if you ask me). I don't know if it is finished, yet. If anyone sees it, let me know!

Musician's Silence

The shy retreat of hearts left in the present,
Elusive and mysterious as the land of Faerie,
Dances hauntingly, softly in the escape of ears.
Notes tumble gently from strings long used.
A bow, lovingly rosined and cared,
Slips in a careless, wandering tune
And orchestrates the song that flows
Happily, joyfully from the violin`s lips.

Fingers wander in a soft caress
That brings soft sighs melodiously
From the gentle singing lady.
Music draws to an end and old friends
Sigh and part with an unheard promise.

An explosion, a tumult of applause.

The harsh, approving sound
Breaks the rightfully won silence,
Eager to fill the mute void.

Singer, dancer, lover, companion, friend
Jump apart in abashed awareness.
The crowd witnessed the passions
spun so delicately by the bard
And unknowing, broke the fragile moment
Between fiddle and man.

Oh, the moment of surreal content
The narrow, swiftly ended eternity
Of bliss and indulgence- too sweet alone,
Too painful in denied solitude

More! Demand the listeners.
Silently, tragically aware
That they did not hear the most important part,
He sharply brings bow to string
And whirls his lady in a reel
To cover painful sorrow

They heard the music,
But not the simple glory
Of the magic in the silence
Of things never whispered
But always heard

In this crowd, he and she
Are alone together, yet forced apart
Later, he promises to her, Later
We will be alone in our sanctuary

But, when the noisy, insistent crowd is gone,
The painful remembrance of lost joy
Cries harshly in the bard's ears.
Can he truly make penance
To so choosey a lover as music?

Yet, she seems forgiving of the crowd
Barbarously ruining her court.
For some in the motley assembly
Heard the silent refrain, and returned the song

The crowd is loud,
He moves wearily away.
Drunken creatures deaf to real joy
Crowd around him and praise.
In his heart, he feels he has slighted his Lady
With a tawdry show of her beauty.

Deaf hearts and minds cannot understand.
To the blind, a sunset is no glory
But, they understand the wind,
And hear its dance more than others.

Not everyone could hear the song,
But there were those who did recognize
The slowly won affections and ear
Of lovely, harsh, kind, wise music.

Again, a soft careful shying step
As another draws near.

Cannot stand the burden to share, to give!

No heart is ever alone
Forget the mundane bustle,
And listen.

The silent song will answer back.



(This one came to me recently, and is a reflection, somewhat that I had one night here in Japan. I have a strange muse. This is somewhat abstract. Sometimes things are so similar between Japan and America that it gives a person a really odd sense of, am I really somewhere else/What is real and what is just imagined? After all, one urban area looks very oddly like another, even though they might be a world away from one another. Familiarity breeds contempt sort of thing. That doesn't come through in the poem, but I didn't really mean to stress it, so that's okay. )

Remembering Freedom

The wind whispers softly here, in careful dancing waves
I can see the sound of the mountains and hear the song of the sea
Bring to me, oh conjured mystery, a thing of memory,
A Love and Life so forgotten that `tisn`t even a missing thing

Wander silently through city streets and stare at the moon
Sing your own frail song to destiny's care
And call out your name to hear the answering voice.
Hear the song of ages and grace and fear and love.

Never once forget, as patiently needed as breath,
The dream you conjured there, still a child
And still with faith in hopes and dreams.

Myth is reality, and the soft whisper of faerie wing lulls you to sleep

See in the stars and rolling clouds the freedom of simply caring
Only a child fears just the wound, and not the making
Give me a flower, show me life full-flowing
And I'll give you the strength to dream
And the hope to keep it growing.

Life is not without pain, but the desperate growing makes us to forget...
There are things beyond our sense, hope beyond our knowing
Strength beyond our imagining and life immeasurable before us...

To grow and not forget the dream
To live and not let pain rule us
To hope, to dream, and to feel
Gives us, makes us the free hearts we are.

(Hearts in the last line can be replaced with souls. I've not decided which I like better. If you have an opinion, e-mail me.)



  (on to page 2 of poems)


  (back to Ginfukurou's main writing page)


  Contact me.