Poetry
After playing the vocal prodigy to Volya,
Comparing the songwriting and the word styling,
Swirling in the Jeff Buckley falsettos
We determined he was not
as real.
Then Laura chimed in with her take on the sound as she plays violin,
The vocal cords are like strings
There is a resonance there she has never heard.
I am then offered a house that is dilapidated
But has the beautiful view and the sound
Of the valley is intoxicating with the variation of birds singing with one another in
harmony.
The contest makers want everything to be a competition with the stylistic measure of one to another.
Compare one romance and touch to another
The electricity has to float in the rhythmic
Beating of the winged
heart.
The materials of this passion build is scarce
In this multitude of expressions to pull from
It has to be authentic and not
derivative
Or pre-existing.
I gather materials of discarded nature and also of antiquity and that of melody.
Down the street another artist
Covers a entire facade with a facade of graffiti
Illustrious windows in the brick with wind
Blowing gossamer curtains of paint from an aerosol can.
I show Lisa the writer the view from the West Point.
She says she could sit here and write for days
And lose time but gain speed in her novel.
The pages would turn more effortlessly
When you find a piece of paradise
In the mediocrity.
The judges gather and I am selected because
I knew how to fold the fabric over a tables
Edge and placed the object in the right direction to charm the room
Not to charm the viewer.
To have silences overlap solicitude and cradle it slightly.
The bank is ruthless in their pursuit of profit
Giving the promise of a new day and comfort
In security.
When my bank bag is full of vegetables and
sustenance
Nourishment for a soul.
The seed planted in the cosmos.
They always put the spin on comfort, or as how popular it is, or how the unknown
troubadour
that never became famous was the muse to the rock star.
They found her music on a discarded cassette
She left it with only the word written in purple on a sticker that said
Regret.
Forgetting these paths to the fading sun.
The encapsulated moment that carried you through the journey freely without acknowledgment.
Where you see the fading light of a day on a buildings edge.
Wedged between paradise loss and
Paradise gained
Francis A Willey
December 26 2022