Quickly tossed out, capturing a moment, depicting an unexpected evening:

Concert series, five elderly well-to-do women, distinguished in chatting, friendly and tranquil, an extra ticket for the Cleveland Jazz Orchestra, come along, Playhouse Square district awaits, be merry and cheerful, willing and ready, open and charming, Yesterday, Today, Forever, As it was in the beginning, it is now, and will be forever,
Strangers inviting a seat for engaging, cellphone images espousing familial commitments, laughter delighting jewelry displaying, ambiance the Hanna Theater illustrious providing, a buzz of excitement, balconies occupied, jam-packed, a hush of excited anticipation, well dressed and arranged, young ladies arrayed,
Brass bellowing begins, standup bass sets the pace, refined drumming guiding along, captivating awkward dancing Paul Ferguson composes ad orientem, A Night in Tunsia, Trumpets growling, alternating undulation in pitch, sidekick Jack Schantz flugelhorn in hand summoning the flanks of an army, Alexander’s Ragtime Band sets toes a tapping,
Requiem dedication, words of consolation, Joni Mitchell in a coma, now alert and responsive, aging and sickness, Both Sides Now, fetching Howie Smith stands and leads, adagio, melancholy and slow, beautifully intoned, the saxophone sings:

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere,
I’ve looked at clouds that way.

But now they only block the sun,
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done,
But clouds got in my way.

I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all.

God’s graces pour fluid, watery dreams, an aqueduct channeling, connecting the divine to time and space, the sacraments stand alone, a sultry singer takes the stage, alluring in appearance, Watch What Happens, sensual all female, Billie Holiday, God Bless the Child,
Herbie Hancock funks it out, the clarinet resounds, dynamic vibrating space, appealing and loud, Jackie Warren quiets it down, waiting to tantalize ebony and ivory, an ever present presence music within, taking the lead a virtuoso exposed, clapping hands acknowledging a great escape, take a break, the lights go up, delectation reprieve, socializing excited looking about, a young lady in a tight short corset top skirt smiles, knowing amused with her friends,
God is good, a prayer in hand, a mind at peace, strangers providing admittance entreat, my you really enjoy, how could I not, yes I receive, blessed and alive, kindness tendered, fellowship adored, lights go down the Jazz music returns,
I Must Try to Forget You, Irving Fine local composer takes the stage, speaking too much, fond of words, composing the tune in his teens, sixty-five years having passed, he pleads, imploring to lead final bars, the difficult part descending the stage, frail, cessation ready,
Straight No Chaser, a monk not religious, not cloistered, Thelonious closing it out, baritone saxophone repetitive and steady, ostinato reverberating profound, backing trombone sliding chromatic, wrapping it up in a coalescing, impromptu redressing, Duke Ellington, Cole Porter, Dizzy Gillespie, memories swinging on over, a night of portending, faith, hope, and charity,

I attended a poetry reading tonight, secular, well lit, modern, well decorated, galleries of juvenile art work decorating, creating for the sake of the one creating establishing an identity, academic and students flailing, fairly well attended. The reading by two women, one young, one older, Lizzie Harris and Lesle Lewis respectively, allowed the graceful wasting of time, an inquisitive effort into using words to alleviate. I attended based upon reading online the poem posted below. There is an honesty, the insight of an observer preparing for something greater, while putting to sleep pains from the past, coming to terms. My conviction to the Catholic faith is deep in practice, the consequence of some remarkable personal experiences. Reposing within the practice, not the preaching—declining outward displays, I enjoy, silently and stealthily, observing creative efforts outside the faith. Artist non-Catholic, non-Christian, can move me deeply. I quickly point to Nick Cave, Belixa Bargeld, Michael Stipe, Cormac McCarthy, and Wim Wenders, names that quickly slip from the mind. There are others. To capture the sense of hopelessness, the longing and urging for something beyond the ordinary, the rejection of conformity–the refusal of accepting banality without regret, the need for suffering the reckoning of a consciousness awake, taking life serious, the brutality and enlightenment of experience: it is a fine start to contemplating mysteries. The dread is the attachment, the establishing of an identity one cannot release. To become a poet is to become something one cannot let go of, seeing all things through twistedness. It is a perversion. One step beyond as Madness sang, through the collapsing of self, not through elevation, rather negation, seems difficult while enduring the trauma and excitement of becoming a recognized artist. All in due time, all in fun. The older poet, speculatively identified with free love, free thinking, the rejection of organized religion, the destruction of hierarchy–appeared hopeless, a disillusioned hippie, mistakes, melancholy, miscalculations, a lack of fulfillment, and not through a divinely infused dark night. Deep, penetrating in concentration, sincerity, and authenticity, not a doubt she has seen much, garnered profound insight, intelligently suffered, caused suffering, bled and was bled, debated and won, debated and lost, yet through it all a presence of satiation, silent joy, a joy without the need to show itself, was inaccessible, within was one spitting anger everywhere. Through it all one can only observe, loving, offering everything to the immaculate heart of Mary and the bleeding Sacred Heart of Christ, while grateful for quality entertainment, a reprieve from cleansing, and an inspiration directing toward virtue. Mystical, simple, the ways of Catholicism soar and plunge into depths it is a shame others cannot access. The grace of a Rosary prayed before the exposed Eucharist, the reprieve and offering of peace, so wonderful to share.

Poem by Lizzie Harris. Notifying her of the posting, in case she wants it removed.

When Linear

Somewhere in the future
My father is dying—frantically
Searching a white beach
For quarters. All my life I’ve tried
To buy, but everything came free—
Falling through air where I
Caught stuff by the tongue.
I was spitting anger everywhere!

Miles overhead, planes drop
Fun-sized candies to the people below,
Who are suffering from illnesses they caught
On the subway. I’m not afraid
For nothing. I can hear the planes
Not landing. The dog silent
In the distance. I fill my grocery bags
With other grocery bags. I graze
On what feels like very little time.