An imperfect forty feet

Divine not more but less today, good sir,

and step slowly into the constrained air.

Struggle not strong but weak today, good knight,

and win or lose, you will find the bottom.

If we give life love, let God's note bless us.

If we break our lives' love, we feed God's will.

All is more or less life, stable not free.

Know more, give more - no greater battle breathes.

Concert of wills

Peter sets the violin down gently, so as not to make a sound. The long bit of practice leaves him fully charged. A collision of emotion and physical prowess wear down the elements of nature that stifle.

"Peter, where are you?" Mandy appears back stage. Her performance rivals Peter's, but it lacks punch. It lacks Peter.

"I'm just here, Mand." Peter places his violin in the case, carefully.

"Peter, you play marvelously. I hope to play like that one day." Mandy reminds Peter of a puppy, gifted but not mature enough to know it. When will she learn?

"Mand, you gave and gave in today's performance. It was brilliant. You do not afford yourself enough credit. You must know that, yes?" Peter resists the temptation to condescend, which is a uniquely British struggle.

"Yes, I did, Peter. But, no one noticed. No one laughed."

"Laughed? They owe you laughter?" Peter sits down, drinks his water.

"Of course, Peter, it is a comedic piece. For violin."

"A comedic piece for violin? Don't be absurd? That is not appropriate."

"Clearly, you didn't laugh either, did you? No worry. I didn't cry during your performance." Mandy, clearly perturbed, places her violin in her case. "I'll be leaving for Lisbon in the morning. I play for the PortPhil tomorrow evening."

"Good luck, Mandy."

"Thank you, Peter."

"Good night, Mandy." Peter turns to walk away.

"Peter, you forgot your soul tonight. You left it outside."

"I know, Mandy, I know."

Peter keeps walking. Mandy cries, softly at first, then harder. No one is laughing now.

Wedding day

Drumheads, heated and stretched by sunlight,

die more deaths than you and I, but are revived.

The cadence of the wedding march, wives in the lead,

drowns out the paternal shoutings on horseback.

The groom peers shamelessly at the mane,

wanting not to affect his soon-to-be benefit.

The bride, instinctively, throws hers in all ways,

never showing more or less of the toll taken.

Vows, to be broken then mended, convene here,

shoulder to shoulder, with faith and mirth to

pound a shallow drumbeat, sing a genuine song.

A different kind of dance

The cold limestone floor mitigates nothingness

while they caper, lock step, behind their matador.

This dance, forged by epochs of sitar and song, and no less,

harmonizes man, woman, and their daily tour.

No lines or spaces, no conductor, and no choreography

lead here in tough times and in spaces of stolen grandeur.

Want for right, a craving for rigid walls, and a lack of atrophy

compel steps be placed, one by one, on the worn dance floor.

Today, the dance and the music, droned out by silver and gold,

spiral no more, torn not intertwined, fading to good from best.

Grief-stricken, though not so obviously, the new and the old

seek fresh players and instruments; wait, yes, but do not rest.

103 nevermore

It burns slowly, like candles as pillars for a house down a hill.

The timeless wick curls back on itself as air invades, conquers.

Though men have stung in dead of night, leaving softened wills,

gravity will bear more that kill, more that never surrender.

Love gives tentatively, like rivers on mountains asleep 'neathe the sun.

A motionless rock splits the current, white stew bubbles and pours.

Some port looms in the distance ahead, always stunned

when the boat steers away, looking for a more resolute moor.

Big top chemical reaction

Alchemists and trapeze artists dance similar routines

as they hang upside down, thinking their delicious dreams.

Ropes shift, pulleys whir, and nets below brace for their next meal

while ragged patrons' eyes volley to and fro, hiding their naked screams.

Performances mesh with reviews, lulled serenely by gothic critics

with long faces, longer hands, and disembodied souls of plaster.

When does it end, this uniquely parisian dance, which by every measure

and by every footstep, keeps out the living and holds up the heretics?

"I don't know," says the ringmaster, her morbid curiosity waning

with every tinctured needle and after every gasp from the onlookers.

"I don't know."

I carry forth

Some men turn slowly in their sleep.

Other men recoil to one edge.

It is on this edge that they weep,

not too outwardly, hoping to hedge a bit.

The end brings their burden and the beginning finds their prayer.

A wife of another time and another manner

sways slowly, a gentle fit.

Gray sweaters and loose-fitting smoking coats

are all that are left here at the narrowest ridge.

Cold, dark winters and soft, sullen springs are cast

in roles to placate all that is right, all that is warm.

The litany of waking remains our sworn enemy - future, present, and past.