Friday, February 6, 2015

Poems by Will Mayo

Will Mayo is another one of the poets I've met on Facebook, but, unlike Pijush and Adelaja, he is a local poet.  The picture above is not a local picture, but I think it fits Will's poetry well.  I am a little late posting his work, but then they are appearing one day closer to the weekend.  



Will S. Mayo

As soldiers to the haunted man once remarked,
the night is full of many strange things:
the air drips with moisture
like the water off a child's nose on a rainy night.
And the sounds reverberate through the spectrum
like the winds wrapping their way
around the melon that is but a moon.
While buildings crack open
with heat and cold,
doorways, windows, shutters framed by peeling paint
flap open, then close
on a night owl's midnight stroll
through alleys echoed by a foghorn's siren,
rustled by leaves torn like decaying flesh.
And when at last,
some bed may be ready
in a dumpster found overturned by the park,
the cock is sure to crow three times in tandem,
each for denial of the night.


The sounds of the night
reverberate through the streets.
exhaust from worn-out mufflers;
breaking through the cloud cover
to tread the walks.
All without glimpse of broken globe
or spangled lights
to tell the face of the blue clad man.
And as the last engine revs
to the dying whisper of gravel's wind,
only the captain of the watch
can tell which sound matters most.



Will S. Mayo

All the shops are full tonight.
There's a window dresser's dummy
hanging from a nail.
There's a clothespin through the eye
of a button
in the latest from torn pants.
And inside everywhere
the prostitute glares
from shades of every shop on the street.
Her reflection shows
a wig that's fitted too tight,
high heeled shoes made for stiletto blades,
and a size 8
that just won't quit.
She stares at you
like she wants you
to do her a favor.
And yet she'd rather
you didn't.
Outside, the streetlamps dim
and slowly blink off.
She wrinkles her brow
in the late evening sunlight.
Tomorrow she will have varicose veins.



Will Mayo

When the voice aches from within.
When the man longs for the day's end.
Then as tomorrow seems only a daydream
and yesterday a mere phantom of a thought
it is that life itself is only a shadow of the living.
For then it is that no mirror reflects,
no stream shines with that ancient gaze.
And every footstep is a hammer for the corpse,
a drumbeat for the dying.
You stare into the glass upon the 3 am bell.
No face, living or dead, awaits your reflection.
For every light has blown away
and darkness is the shadow of the wavering candle.
When you wish to blow out the wakening ghost
and continue with living,
it is only the bell that stops you.
The sounds of the gongs within cymbals colliding
coincide with the beating of your heart.
Thunderclaps the mountain
and it is at such times that you wish you were only dreaming.

Of course, I will begin the music with Monk's "Round Midnight":

Here is an early version of his "Straight No Chaser":

"Well, You Needn't" is a little quick and bouncy, but I am including it anyway:  Perhaps it is meant to represent the cars zipping along at night.

Monk's "April in Paris" fits the mood a little better:

Then I will conclude with "Pannonica":

And so concludes the fall contest!  We will have a special winter wonderland entry by Juan Tituana and Jerry A. Scuderi as a grand finale.  Thank you for an excellent fall at The Song Is..  I will be posting the rules for voting in the contest before the Winter Wonderland appears.

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