Know Notes Aloud

 

knowNotesaloudPICart

Maybe or not
nothing, keyed
but a breath taken
anchored to create
seatbelts denied
smoked grass, poured gas
rear view backseat driven ride

base guitar, black bass
four strings uncooked and cast
re-keyed, the tiger swam at last
by darned maps, medicine token chips
drumsticks feather fields,
wild deer ticks
running lights and a pedal
steel guitar lick

beautiful chess boards fell
soon pieces meet neatly with love
playing muttered muddy water songs
a music sees the ebony cartel
dances become plays, plays become dances
with the turning of an allen wrench

blues crowds faded, creeks begin croaking
fenced, the dazed and hoaxed
despair dated, the fretboard floating,
blanched, the neck bowed, straightened on rosewood, coaxed
tuning proclaims know notes aloud

wolves blinked, eyes break opened
bluer than Utah’s salt lake
a world understood, stood understood, vinyl swill,
sweat pouring, pouring piano rained
water pelting like bullets kill
tickled ivory keys looking arranged
pictures hang, stretched on buffalo skin
promised like lines in pools
a dive so deep, one polish kiss

pride changed the rules
the sun re-aligned, flared and poached
winning ways, cymbols snare, united states lease
high hats, and luminous dates, a golden roach
guns lifted, marching marshell, swollen peace
a market place, large fruit, top of mantel
money tucked in the wallet of time, nothing urned
bongos banged, fired by candles, the war burned
c clef that says know notes aloud

a flight ticketed, flirting contained,
a baby’s handprint due,a tailored garden, a reading road
calender’s re-printed, a press word key ,labor day cue
weekend goodbyes, memories sent abroad susustained
a foreclosed site, autumn maple ray, paved, slowed
grass marquee played, the bees harbored, john deer shoed
from a to z,uncharted paper bundled, ride
laminated, cut, pasted, then pathed
highway ridden, Kentucky skinned, Louisianna and lathed

one new fishing rod, pinned, our fate, basted word press
our black grandmother’s address,
Gerry Mandered, us again split in two
walking in silver, slandered, shoes
a crooked clap, again at the cape
a four track, trading tape
a clapping preamble
a horn’s blow, geese honk
the majority whip
the tambourine trembles
are unheard, redress
we are the singers
sounding
the siren
know notes aloud

Poem by Heather Whitley Gibson

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Yesterday’s Moth

A cloth thread
it was yellow; shinning
bright steel blue
cob webs; recyclability
drips design retractable
and Tuesday received
buckets freely
I see a moth
from yesterday poems on
a blank piece of paper
cloth; thoughtfully pinned
inside made
thoughtfully re-read intimately
exhaust/senescent
tube; in my heart
leering down
it’s sinful weakness

My ears are doing-that
windshield-wiper
thing-slowed-down
wiping out
hands off; buzzards; leftover
ground down white wrapped yarn
the bones of a coat; hung hanger
wreck debris aged
falling of the bone
in waves; falling off the bone
in waves; it just comes
nothing hurts
it’s supposed to

 

Poem By Heather Whitley Gibson

“Love’s Last Adieu” – George (Lord) Byron

 

george-gordon-byron

The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ‘mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!

In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love’s last adieu!

Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, ?Our meeting we yet may renew:?
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love’s last adieu!

Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish’d, with Love’s last adieu!

Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love’s last adieu!

Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s easy chains,
Once Passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love’s last adieu!

How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love’s last adieu!

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;
No more, with Love’s former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love’s last adieu!

In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at Love’s gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love’s last adieu!

Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love’s last adieu!

 

Denise Burge: Original Dirt (May 14 – September 4, 2011)

Denise Burge: Original Dirt (May 14 – September 4, 2011)

Denise Burge, Louise's Tree's, 1999

Denise Burge, Louise’s Tree‘s, 1999

Cincinnati based artist Denise Burge, approaching quilting from a painting background, views the creation of her work as its subject as well as its medium. Using the storytelling tradition learned in her community while growing up in the foothills of the Smokey Mountains, Burge uses her works as a commentary on everything from her family to the natural environment.
The Appalachian region has a history of folk artists concentrating on storytelling featuring aspects of religion, poverty, and the natural resources of the land. By using the quilt as her medium, Burge interprets what, to her, is a nostalgic and functional form of expression. Exploiting patchwork and sewing techniques as a vehicle for ecstatic pattern, Burge seeks to suggest her compositions as and analog to natural patterns of existence. Her work is constructed with a variety of materials and methods, both recycled and new, suggesting aspects of physical growth and renewal through the process. Shredding, slicing, layering, and turning forms and patterns inside-out, the artists sees her creations as a way to reenact and connect with the transformations that the earth constantly undergoes. Her nostalgia leads her to a romanticized conversation about attachment to our landscape. In the Appalachian landscape, people often see the brutality that can be exerted upon the earth, but also become viscerally connected to land and place as a natural resource and source of vitality. Burge uses her work to contemplate this contradiction and question the complexities of our relationship to our natural world.

Elmhurst Art Museum
150 Cottage Hill Ave.
Elmhurst, Illinois 60126
630.834.0202

Object Imprint artist, Denise Burge

Object Imprint artist, Denise Burge (Photo credit: a stitch in the ditch)

“Mark My Words” – Poem By: Heather Whitley Gibson 11/7/2012

mark my words
mark my words.
with red
or a cross.
however you can
mark my words
with time, a
calendar, a voice
scar it. rip it away.
mark my words
call it out lies.
dismember it’s ties.
just mark it. my words
spit on the ink;
let it run
down, let it
bleed out. drain,
my pen, just marked
my words

“The Word Prayer” – Poem By: Heather Whitley Gibson

a love everlasting
until death arrives
at your answering
a phone call
the taste of coffee
changes
minutes ago
at peace
vibrates like
a cliche quote
it hits your skin
like an advertisement
writing a song
a poem
suddenly, easily stated
the word prayer
sounds like a cheap wig
my grandmother
can not speak
her words are understood
moving lips
at nothing
honest forms in words
death kills
letters open hearts

 

“Casey At The Bat” – Poem By: Ernest Lawrence Thayer

 

 

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day,
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast.
They thought, “if only Casey could but get a whack at that.
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake;
and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake.

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat;
for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball.

And when the dust had lifted,
and men saw what had occurred,
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat;
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,
there was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t’was Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey.

“Strike one!” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.

“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand,
and it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey’s visage shone,
he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew,
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey’s lip, the teeth are clenched in hate.
He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout,

but there is no joy in Mudville
mighty Casey has struck out.