I. Morning Rewind the grey dots on the pavement. Drop them up into the sky, Higher, higher to their pinprick pockets in the clouds. Pockets where, for a brief moment, the light peaks through the grey undersky—a split-second split for spilt light to slice through. … Continue reading Triptych for a Rainy Day
I had the opportunity to read a wide selection of books this summer. Feel free to comment below. What did you think of them? Being Mortal by Atul Gawande A powerful book about contemporary American end-of–life care. This book widened my comprehension of how Americans … Continue reading 15 Books I Read this Summer
I got my first pinwheel at a Fourth of July parade, sweating on a steaming curb. I was five years old at the time, and I could show you I knew it too, five pudgy fingers spread wide. Women on stilts with star-spangled pants tossed … Continue reading Pinwheel {flash fiction}
I made this simple arrangement of themes from John Powell’s score for Dreamworks’ How to Train Your Dragon for one of my piano students recently. I hope you enjoy it.
The apple tree and me. The two of us: me, beneath the tree but not in the shade; the tree, beneath the sun but not in the light. Clouds over me and the apple tree, which makes three: the clouds, the apple tree, and … Continue reading Double-shade
Preludium — (n.) a prelude, an opening, an introduction (in music and literature); a preparation, a sign of things to come.
Download Sheet Music for Preludium Here
One Page Condensed Sheet Music for Preludium Here
– M.M.
Pisa
The village people knew
it was not a matter of if,
but a matter of when,
the tower would fall,
its wind-bleached columns
buckling at the knees
under the crushing weight of
its lofty belfry, which looked
out over the Piazza dei Miracoli
—the square of miracles.
Having stood in sturdy silence
for centuries, the spiral staircase
stretched its spine
enjoying the pop
of each stony vertebra until
the seventh story struck the ground
in a glorious, groaning backbend.
The nearby Cathedral of Pisa
didn’t approve of the acrobatics.
No self-respecting campanile
dreams of calisthenics.
What would the village people think?
But it didn’t matter what
the they would think.
With grating blocks in shifting stacks,
and stairs and capitals
and fissuring cracks,
the dust flew up,
then settled down, there
in pieces all around,
the parts of Pisa
on the ground.
Peace and Pisa on the ground.
-M.M.
Ore & Ink
The polished wooden pen
writes because its roots
are ink and its leaves
silver.
Its scope, as the
canopy umbrella of
the baobab tree, that
stretches wide the Sahara
bronze.
Its thought, the redwood
strength of twisting gnarls
and knotted rings
lodged in Sierra soil
gold.
-M.M.
Painting With
I don’t like the yellow wind—
all hot and rough, brittle,
fond of sawdust and spinning.
I much prefer the blue wind
that caresses and smooths,
sweeping away the sweat
and the afternoon.
The white wind keeps me up
at night, echoing in my
teeth and unsettling my bones
like salt from the north.
But, the black wind has my respect.
It moves methodically
the wheel of the seasons,
steering a massive rumble reckless
as the other winds bow in silence.
Then it gathers fragments,
scoops them into piles, and
draws closed the bag of time
spun out, till it all but disappears.
-M.M.
Melting Point
It’s raining on the fallen snow
and I’m happy—don’t know why.
The street is muddy sludge,
the grass is flat and pale,
the sky is woolen grey, so why?
Why is it I’m happy?
The world’s a mess and it’s the best.
I’m happy—don’t know why.
-M.M.
