Mike Bayles in Chicago

Summer is a fine time to be out and about with friends and lovers, listening to music.  So let's go out to Chicago's Old Navy Pier with Mike Bayles.

Chicagofest at Old Navy Pier

Lake Michigan’s waters lap at her shoulders,

and the waters hold onto the sun’s lingering

reflections of summer.

Seven dollars apiece,

and my lady friend from the suburbs and I

can see musical acts of different styles

performed on seven different stages.

Just steps away from the glittering skyline

Navy Pier wants to offer the magic of Chicago

as we walk through its gates.

Melodies and chords come together

as we walk inside the pier,

trading small talk to get to know each other.

We pass food vendor stands offering an international

flavor while we share our worlds,

and we pause to savor the taste of gyros.

We sit together in front of Main Stage,

and taking in a gentle breeze from the lake,

we watch Boz Scaggs perform.

The spell is cast, and we sway

to the music as it rocks

late afternoon into dusk.

As the band plays I swat lake flies

descending from the sky.

My date and I swat insects,

and I look around to see others,

a wave of humanity doing the same,

keeping rhythm to the beat

of songs played.

Bio

Mike Bayles, a lifelong Midwest resident, writes about human connections to different settings, nature, and with each other. He is the author of Breakfast at the Good Hope Home, 918 Studio Press. This mixed-genre' piece tells the story of a son  visiting his Alzheimer's father in the nursing home, and about the loss of the life he's known. He is also the author of three books of poetry: The Harbor I Seek, The Rabbit House, and Threshold. 

Let's start with a live version of Boz Scaggs' "Lido Shuffle":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pefnn2Ccp-8

I'll include a live version of his "Lowdown," too:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-C6Azq3ecrA

This is a cover of "Harbor Lights," another of Boz Scaggs' tunes:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QrBIHzRZx4I

Enjoy!

Sheikha A. Returns

Tonight I'd like to welcome Sheikha A. back to The Song Is...  This first poem fits perfectly with the evening humidity.  Perhaps I ought to turn the lights off so that I can see the moon!


Auspice 

It’s hard to resist a provocation
dressed in your favourite colour;

when summers become a case
of scant apparels,

and there is never enough breeze
in the wind’s reserves to swathe

the night moon’s forehead
with a cool dampness;

I cover my body with white
thoughts from black books,

learning the speech of the tarrying
seas with its rightful pauses.

There are cliffs facing my door
sending in guests that will incubate
on cold walls;

there are trees facing my windows
bearing nests greater in number
for its branches can carry;

there are youthful evenings
that visit every moonrise
bringing promises to settle
in the pores of my garments;

and there is memory of life –

the musical shades
of your footsteps arriving –

Sphere

Life was when a baby was born
and looked up to the sky

at his home; cried the tears of a stone
yet unwritten; fell into moment’s

silence to remember the stars
he saw on the way down,

and became aware of his eyes
that had now closed to the esoteric

to have to open them later to speak
the language of aesthetics. His mind

would not be unknown to secrets
of origins, if moulded by a knower

of truths; and if he were to be
raised by a believer of fantasy,

he would learn to write on water
in a life that is about saving none

of its parchments. He would grow
fast in body, ageing faster in sight.

Unwound

Beyond where the sky rests,
I imagine a city at night,
it is large in size of land
but scantly populated,
there stands a pale walled
fort, wide and high
to house detached spirits
whose bodies have left
behind, their foreheads
wearing a dust not of earth;

aglow faces with contentment
treading no more cautiously
but freely, unhooked,
unshackled to preachments
previously hefting minds;

stirring fathomers
un-incarcerate of laws,
confident of their walk
into beckoning shadows;

they are no more unaware,
secrets of the sun -  its fire,
of the moon - its light,
every element
unconcealed,
unhazed,
punctuated.

Of course, I am going to begin with Wayne Shorter's "Infant Eyes":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpVx1KujaRY

Fred Hersch's version of "Heartsong" follows:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czCivvnX0ME

I don't think I've posted much by Bill Evans, so here is his "Like Someone in Love":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?

v=QFoapxPvZy4

Enjoy!

Test for Ethan

Douglas Malan, Jazz, and Trains

Photo by DVS

Tonight Douglas Malan brings us back to the theme of music, specifically jazz.  

Realignment

I intended to be way up there,
Vermont, perhaps,
playing jazz
into the blue
predawn hours
sipping something strong. 

I intended to be there,
wrapped in meditative comfort
surrounded by walls of circles
possessing hot magic
in vinyl grooves and pockets.

I intended to be there,
the tick-tock of the wooden clock
marked the rhythmic electric flow
and ancient pines caked with snow
welcomed another midnight dusting
of slow, acoustic grace. 

I intended to be there,
watching from the window
speaking only when necessary
in low, liquid tones
to no one, or everybody
all of them unseen
from my den. 

I intended to be there,
but knew the velvet night
never lasts
and the sharp light changes me
agitates, enervates, misappropriates
pulls me out as I give in. 

I intended to be there,
but never went. 

Originally published in Jerry Jazz Musician.

Forged and Cast

I sit in the darkness,

eyes closed, but not asleep, 

listening for distant sound. 

Quick arrival, low hum leading 

to a mechanized rumble

and iron clacking drumbeat. 

Then, gone. 

Return to the night 

of crickets

and wisps through leaves. 

The faceless among them

hurtle into the mystery 

with industrial rhythm

powerless, hopeful.

***

I’ve been there. 

Boarded the City of New Orleans, 

northbound train #59,

Christmas season,

countryside lit up with joy and hope.

The potbelly stove and grandfather clock 

saw me off around midnight 

from Newbern, north of Memphis. 

Journey on. 

***

Low lights, scattered sleep

DuQuoin, Illinois 

God, don’t I know you well. 

Mom always held my hand tightly across Main Street, 

until she didn’t need to anymore. 

Got sick of this place, vowed never to return.

But it can’t leave me, and I love it more 

with time and distance. 

***

Black canvas, blur of light

drunk on sleeplessness

16 hours without speaking, 

I liked it that way.

Chicago, Omaha, Denver

retracing boyish steps, 

as a man. 

Breathless in Vail’s blue-haze snow

another clumsy attempt

because I didn’t belong. 

I was a connection 

between

humble farmers of dusty overalls

and jet setters of champagne baths

who will never meet. 

Every wailing train

makes me daydream.

--------------------------------

Of course, I am going to start with "Moonlight in Vermont," but this is a 1952 version with Johnny Smith on guitar and Stan Getz on tenor sax: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRNpc-hFkCs

Here is Ahmad Jamal's version from 1958: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Fqq8A61KFg

Now you have jazz in Vermont.  The Brian McCarthy Quartet plays "The Feeling of Jazz" at the Vermont Public Radio's studio:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfL0KC_eHq4

I'll finish up with Chuchito Valdes playing at the Vermont Jazz Center: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5WfKYpTH3c

Enjoy!

Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Tonight I'd like to post some poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan.    Enjoy!  I certainly am.

Poem for a Man Who Thinks of the Children 

The crossing guard is there so  

children can cross the river Styx 

like the rest of us.

One side to the other.

Pennies over the eyes like government spending.

This man who cannot quite bring himself 

to be retired.

Two wives departed.

One through her lawyers, the second by death.

A long white beard with food in it.

And it is just a passing moment, but I see it 

sure as quarried rock. 

Any man who hates himself 

will never find the love of another.

He will curse the moon and replace the sun 

with a sky that paints ancient deserts

over electric flip phone hearts.

Belief is Better than 

Butterfat

The monk 

in orange robes

went down 

to the river.

Getting drunk

on wine

and throwing 

his poems 

upon the rocks.

If they are meant 

to find meaning 

they will find it 

without me,

the monk 

in orange robes

declared.

Before passing out 

under a banyan tree 

that offered little shelter 

from the 

rain.

One Giant Leap

There was a rooftop party 

the same day 

the jumper showed up 

prepared to take 

the plunge.

            

And he felt obliged 

to stay 

and have a few 

drinks.

Before excusing himself 

politely 

to go find 

another building.

Man Walking Three Ferrets 

I guess they’re not quite clogs, but his gait is struggling

right out of the block.

That unnatural limp of back pain 

and hidden opioid addiction.

Do not foist your various machinations upon the day, 

I must remember this, like scouting out the

hands of a clock for time.

What are intrigues if not an eye to confetti?

Certainly not this man walking three ferrets.

Three separate leads entwined into a single mess.

Blood pressure cuffs converted into black Velcro

shirts that fasten at the bottoms.

Three of them.

And many tiny wool booties of animal hosiery 

so feet forget the cold.

The rain is for wet and introspection.

With all these views, I have only seen myself.

It Could Be Worse

How the hell are we supposed to make ends meet?

she screamed from the kitchen

what about food?

what about rent?

what about...

It could be worse,

I said.

And it could be better,

she countered.

Yeah,

it could be better,

I said.

But we both knew it would 

be worse.

Soaker Tub

Out west 

we had a soaker tub

and nothing else.

No furniture

except a single rod iron chair 

in the kitchen.

Then we got a used bed 

and a dresser from the St. Vincent de Paul

and a table from the transvestite 

next door.

And we took turns with the soaker tub.

It was all we had and we enjoyed it.

Living like kings with warm cloths over our heads.

And each day 

we were back down at the employment office

looking for work.

We had our resumes out everywhere.

No one would give us anything.

In the evenings we would sit on the floor

with our bowls of rice and butter.

Beside the phone in case of call backs.

Then soak our tired feet in the tub

and go to bed.

Her with her favourite book about a time traveller

who finds love in ancient Scotland.

Myself with a biography of Claus von Stauffenberg.

And it was strange to do everything three hours

before you had always done it.

And it rained incessantly  

so that you came back home wet

but somehow smelled like fire.

No one to talk to but each other.

It was odd and cold

and ours.

De Niro

Bobby Milk

along Hester Street,

Little Italy;

all pale 

and silent 

before the driving

of taxis

and taking a dive

to get his shot

and Tribeca 

and Stella Adler

and the hours of Marmont 

with cubby hole smiles   

and Belushi 

while the Best Man in a Leading Role

fails to show,

the mean streets 

break into laughter,  

and little Marty

behind the camera

never stops

rolling.

Let's finish up with a little music.  The other day my husband and I went to hear Ultrafaux open for Anat Cohen.  Here is Ultrafaux's "North Avenue Stomp":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHAGWq2mEcs&list=PL7rSkAMVTDVcyhZlX2mIlpj3TLxtBpu23

Their "Bartender Blues" sounds like an appropriate choice as Ryan has been published in The Rye Whiskey Review:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5-8mVjKbmk&list=PL7rSkAMVTDVcyhZlX2mIlpj3TLxtBpu23&index=7

The Comet is Coming's "Summon the Fire" makes for a good change of pace: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G55GspnNkBo

I'll finish with their "Start Running": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7Px2wK10jg

Welcome to Mike Griffith!

Above is a picture of the ruins of Johnny Cash's home in Hendersonville, TN.  It's a wintry picture, but the poem below is worth reading at any time.

Listening to Johnny Cash with my friend Arthur

Listening to Johnny Cash with my friend Arthur
in his room at the nursing home--

I can only understand about every third word
that Arthur says, but it's alright,

Johnny says enough for any three men. 

On Tour with The Mighty Commas

(For a different Ian than the one I know.)

Watch the guitar, watch the guitar;

feel the drums, feel the drums.

Grinding light, deafening roar,

singer dance, smoky swirl,

push of sound, crush of crowd.

The stage is wet, the stage is steam.

Strung-out, happy and glazed.

The Mighty Commas are on tour, 

their greatest hits, controversies, and memories:

minors with backstage passes,

a Friendly's somewhere in Ohio, 

and that wreaked hotel bar in Oakland.

The next city, some other city

the next state over, under altered skies.

Got this lady, but gonna get that girl. 

Do it again, doin' it dirty, doin' it clean,

comma, man, comma, comma, comma, man.

Watch the guitar, watch the guitar.

Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry while recovering from a life-changing injury and its resulting disability. His chapbook Bloodline will be released in fall 2018 by The Blue Nib and his chapbook Exposed from Hidden Constellation Press is available on Amazon and Soma Publishing. He is a 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee.  Recently, he became the US/Canada Poetry Editor at The Blue Nib.  

Exposed paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Exposed-Poetry-Michael-Griffith/dp/1724075535/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1540273560&sr=8-2-fkmr1&keywords=exposed+michael+a+griffit

Exposed eBook: https://www.somapublishing.com/2018/10/exposed.html

Michael’s website: https://michaelgriffithwordpress.wordpress.com/

I'll start off with a more recent song by Johnny Cash, "Hurt":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vt1Pwfnh5pc

This is his "God's Gonna Cut You Down":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJlN9jdQFSc

A younger Johnny Cash sings "Far Side Banks of Jordan" with June Carter Cash: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpM9nZwNJlo