They arrive at gigs without roadies
or rigs.
The
setlist is packed full in the throat.
The
stage is the wire, the limb, and the leaf.
Lovingkindness
is preserved
in
full measure as is belief
in
the aura and shine of the heart.
From
the birch I watch the man
standing
alone on the street,
the
one who is writing this poem
and
so prone to forgetting his part
in
the song that is always playing.
But
there is hope for him yet.
~William Hammett
Site Map
The country gentleman walked onto
the stage
wearing
a white shirt and black trousers,
a
red guitar hanging on his every move,
his
hair white snow,
his
face lined and kind.
It
was lovely to see him again.
Bass
notes pulled four others, quiet
and
unassuming, from behind black curtains,
each
adding nuance, accents—
a
flute, guitars, electric keys—
though
they might have been blue jays
arriving
from the neon mountain—
an
old album cover—
projected
on the theater wall.
The
acolytes gave him space,
always
behind the man
yet
always with him,
chiming
in, fading, swaying, praying,
invisible
incense for the holy notes.
Once
upon a time
I
could reach out and touch the legend of a mind
as
it electrified Zen gardens
with
a diamond needle raking vinyl
like
a monk grooming rock and roll sand.
It
was my own mind too,
which
traveled to the threshold
of
a wildest dream, a lost chord,
days
of future passed.
I
didn’t know that they would last,
that
there was to be a second coming
for
this son of man, this humble lord.
Someone
asked him if he missed the others,
longed
for the camaraderie of his band.
No,
not really.
He
said the music was for now,
was
intimate, personal, free.
“It’s
for you and me,
you
and me.”
~William Hammett
Site Map
The insurance salesman heads for
the dive bar
at
the end of the street, doors and dirty windows
keeping
an eye on his actuarial progress after work.
He’ll
probably make it to the den of thieves.
A
shot and a beer, and he’s at the neon table,
buttons
raising flippers faster than insurance rates.
The
gorgeous leggy nude lights up, and ping
followed
by ping sends morse code into the foggy sea
surrounding
the salty men who sail the barstools.
Lights
and numbers pull his eyes from his skull,
body
English thrusting his hip like a lover
against
the wood, against his growing years,
aiming
for the nude since his wife won’t go down.
High
score, high score. He’s in love with life again
and
lifts a glass of beer to the Michelob light
hanging
on the wall, a lighthouse for the wasted
who
need to piss when it’s hard to find the door.
Or
there’s darkness, a dark night of the soul,
when
the flippers lose their mojo groove,
when
the nude grows dim and mocks the move
to
juggle silver balls like a god who’s on a roll.
Then
it’s out the door and up the rain-damp street.
The
machine is omen to the dawn that waits,
a day when Fortuna smiles or clicks the man
like bait.
It’s
a self-fulfilling prophecy inside his brain,
but
he’s lost in numbers, columns, rows.
The
insurance trade is a game of stats,
a
prophet’s gaze into rabbit hats,
a
crystal ball with silicon chips and siren calls.
He
has forgotten that he cannot make it rain.
The
young boy might die in a number prime
while
an old man runs a marathon, every step a rhyme.
~William Hammett
Site Map
The world is at a standstill.
The
seasons neither retreat nor advance
on
this July evening at the lake
by
the summer house that is ours
for
the week, even the mosquitos
too
lazy to get a good buzz on.
The
sky rolls into dark blue, then black.
The
boat drifts to the middle of microcosm,
my
love cradled in the crook of my arm
as
we lie prostrate and behold first the stars
and
then the silver coin of moon
as
it rises and paints the quiet water
with
its version of mid-summer.
A
small wind rises, rocks the boat by inches,
and
she is on top of me, eyes closed,
naked
as she moves in rhythm
to
the waves, the breeze.
The
moon has disappeared,
revealing
the constellations, the stars.
And
then we are face to face,
side
by side before turning
to
see that we are once again
beneath
sensual Luna, who blesses
our
silent joining and the kisses
that
will remain when the lake is frozen
in
the dark skies of December.
~William Hammett
Site Map
