I hear wind chimes where none hang
but once had hung thin cylinders,
gone are the tiny gongs
they played, arpeggios in minor turbulence
there on the shepherd’s hook
Seldom does the wind move
the long bass chime, and so leaves
ample room for tenor angels
to chorus, harmonize
impromptu lines
Listen! Glissando
is your cue on the castanet
to fritter, loll away the Time,
soulfully flick your fingers,
waggle your tongue
Be a cicada to the meter,
Rita do you want to keep a beat
or what?
Silence:
the best ending.
Chagall 2018
This moves quite lyrically/musically, as I’m sure was your intent – perfectly complementing the musical terms you have scattered throughout. Fantastic! 🙂
Thank you, D’Fire. You are very kind. —CC
Always a pleasure to read your work
Thank you. Similarly for me with respect to reading yours as well. —CC