CURFEWS
Noise
Is a cruel ruler
Who is always imposing
Curfews,
While
Stillness and quiet
Break open the vintage
Bottles,
Awake the real
Band.
The Sound of Sunday
At Home with the Lovers of the Earth
by the fire
with the earth lovers
and a rising moon
the Garden Poet pulls red hot rocks
by pitchfork
from glowing coals
each one with its own shape
and story
I brush the embers away
with purple ti leaves
as the pulsing porous surface dazzles
the darkness
like some space stone from afar
ancient
all knowing
inside the arches
of tied guava saplings
we sit and sweat
with these keepers of time
every drop of our perspiration
releases to the solid soil
supporting
just beneath us
lemon basil floats
in our water calabash
and with every prayer
is the casting of spray upon stone
punctuating the thick air
in the zesty garden steam of green
rising in heated refreshment
tonight
a homecoming
remembrance of connection
all things earthly serve
gifting us
may I never again forget my nature
forever giving thanks
outside the womby lodge
water cools
fire warms
moon illumines
aloe soothes
lemon refreshes
garden greens nourish
terra firma holds our feet
until I lay down by the fire
and let the whole earth
hold my whole body
drift off to sleep
warm in the moonlight
fully fed
with the lovers of the earth
Salvation through Music
You know there’s something for you when a show starts with “Salvation.”
An acoustic solo concert with Citizen Cope last night. A small amp and his Martin guitar, the stage set for sparseness. There was no introduction. Just Cope as he stepped to the stage and began to strum the slow and heavy song featuring a few chords and his strong voice.
His movements are slow, the words flowing from his throat, sweet and fragile. So vulnerable but thick with experience, it’s almost as if he’s singing a cappella in our theatre of 500. You could almost be lulled by the beauty of the notes that reach your ears – hear the silence fill the auditorium between his breaths. But listen closely to the intensity of the lyrics and there is pain weaving clues about the dark places he’s seen.
Well I came down with my Martin blazin’
My voice
It was cutting him up
Now he’s aiming
His first shot grazed my eye
I lost half of my sight
And my firstborn’s life
The second shot grazed off my guitar moon
And it made my guitar kinda play out of tune
But I just kept playing
Like I had nothing to lose
He turned the third on himself
‘Cause the bastard knew
Salvation I’m calling
Salvation
Put the gun down
Put the gun down
Put the gun down
Put the gun down
From the beginning, Citzen Cope disarms us. For the rest of the evening, he offers familiar songs stripped down to their most essential parts. Simple strums and his rich voice sing the poetry of human struggle, redemption and healing of the heart.
He has a scar near his right eye. He rarely speaks between songs but to say thank you and touch his hand to his heart. He has the air of someone that may have slept in a prison cell and yet he is so delicate and gentle I want to become his bodyguard for life and protect him from all things violent. He moves deliberately like water on the stage and we, the seated witnesses, fall in love in two acoustic hours.
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