first, the obvious, if you know my taste in music, and many don’t, adele? probably not, but kids change you, like how my sister got my dad listening to the indigo girls, my daughter loves adele, she listened to hello many, many times, it took me several days to understand the lyrics, paddle to the other side, canoeing on my brain, it is a thing, but there is something magical about riding in a car with a teenager, on the road conversation, meaningful, but no eye contact, music in the background, enter adele, her voice pulsating through the radio, let me photograph you in this light, in case it is the last time, that we might be exactly like we were, and there is it, soulful voice meets nostalgia, i’m hooked, and now i love adele, a true music story.
Tag: Magic
Thinking About Marc Chagall
how to write about chagall? feels impossible to describe an unending dream of color, sky, moon, donkeys, chickens, man/woman sailing/flying through skies, love is so much of his world with flowers and everything magic, magical, to imagine, mystical, that feeling, when you pretend to be in the painting, who/what would you be? the tree? the violin? the rooster? the angel? the dancer? the sun? what/who? where will he take you? away, where have you been? inside his mind, your mind, our mind, our universe, marc chagall with a key, a brush, some paint, opens the door
When The Fever Stopped
i found myself remembering
all the other feeble days
when time stood still, when
a single room, a single bed
was everything. Between
shivers and coughs, the
twilight space, sickness,
where body and mind journey
in dreams, but go nowhere.
This suffering carries with it
the magic of surrendering
to forces that determine
temperature and strength,
outside of human will and
control. And when this lasts
for night after night, a voice
calls out, don’t fight, don’t fight.
And when we give in
life always begins again.
Soap in the Shower
when i think of all the times
i’ve caught the soap in the
shower, i wonder if i could
trade this for immortality or
winning the lottery or another
miracle beyond slick clumsy
fingers losing a fragrant
rectangle, only to somehow
cradle it again, like a touchdown
this, while contemplating whether
it is just me who performs sudsy
magic, there must be others who
exhaust all their luck behind
foggy plexiglass, others who silently
celebrate the meaningless and divine
Daniel W. Polk 