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Superstition MountainTo Stella Link's previous piece

Orchestrated Symphony of Independent Thought

Saturday’s Starlit Eve:

The two of us immersed 
        In the glory of the symphony-----
                Of all things…
Not like the rock concert,
        with ear-splitting noise,
  	        or art show of 
                        shellacked canvases, 
And brushstrokes,
        flowing like typewriter ribbons or a film
                whose tape falls,
                        from its projector, 
                        the projectionist 

        I am entranced by moonlight sonatas---
Movements causing me to forget the world, 
                its vulgar appearances,
                        except that which is appetizing to the senses. 

                I paint a picture, with the swing of my hands, in my lap,
the windblown movements of the conductor, 
                I capture, 
                        every sense
                                of emotion.

        My fingertips hidden against the fabrics furrows,
and my host self lost, 
                in the eloquence, 
                                        of the symphony… 

        My inner soul is captivated, rich velveteen hues---
Floating in the creaminess of violin concertos, suspended, 
        a remarkable
                blending of colors--- 

        Composing, distinctive purples and blues as serenades, 
which cling to my hands as 

        Breathless swirls of harmony, melodies that fill me with
a mental yoga, a inner peace 
                        laced seductively
                                with tender strings.
        I am the rhythm, captivating this conductor----
To paint in a palatte of solemn monotones, emotions rebirth.
                         Yet, when the masterpiece is finished, the sound  
                                 is focused as an enflamed orb, 
                                                         in his hands.
        A steadfast union of art and music, where quarternote 
Footprints spatter against an imaginary canvas,
                Imagining symphonic 
        	                Jackson Pollock.

        A gift in musical form, the siren embedded in instruments ---
Waltzing up and down my spine, 
        Tingling harps, windchimes, battling 
                                with the notes resonance. 

        She speaks through the conductor’s fingers, vibrating profusely---
His harmonious creation, shooting forth from his baton,
        surrendering himself,
                        to our desire.

        Intriguing whirlwinds, the revolving of planetary motion surrounding us every hour, 

        The beauty overflows from me, in blossoming bursts---
Oils that morph,
                into tumors on our lips, 
                                                in silence. 

        We pour forth from a dream, where the conductors 
starched coattails 
                swing in time,
                        with the slinging bows of 
                                                        and brass. 	

        The hair on his head brazen in a thin, gold metallic,
tresses etched in stalagmite static. 
Upon the borne percussionist tapping his drum, 
                I focus, 
                with his body, 
                        maintaining stealthy charisma.

        My eyes widen at the skill, shivers descending my spine, 
Through every beat, the 

I am transported in the many facets, the spectrum of color---
        My body writhes, uncontrollable, 
                as the bow in its musical waltz,
                        while strings tip toe mercy, 
                                        in their familiar 

        The symphony floods the concert hall with ecstasy, 
As it turns violent, clash and clamor,
        In vibration, 
                the physical world,
                                 my instruments. 

        The brackish undertow of crashes--- the gale-force sting,
sharpening in an eruption of ocean waves, 
                that consume and
                        spew forth all that
                                it sees. 

        It pours forth into audience, engulfing our senses, an apocalyptic
magnitude that only 
        Deforestation: Acres upon acres, wrinkled faces devour me---
The ground, an upturned, 
        wicked sneer, with oppressive death.

                        A volcanic eruption pushes forth, in my eyes, this reflection, inner
                creation of a symphony pulling forward----

        I, the inner lust of music to composers, sleepless, 
                     In monumental thirst, 
        Life’s mysteries stand attention to me, 
Like toy soldiers 
        for eternal milliseconds.  

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