Inner Symphony
A baton raises, and it begins:
The Symphonie Fantastique,
Berlioz’ personal passion play.
Notes, only notes to me;
Much more to her.
Inside her chest- deeper than the rhythmic heart-
A hidden heart, chamber-less,
One I cannot know, may not own,
Suffused with music,
Releases itself.
I turn to watch her
As her tears break their moorings.
The young virtuoso stands rooted on the wooden stage,
Yet not there:
Lifted,
Wholly in flow,
Wholly carried, drawn by bow and string.
She is carried with him,
No-is him for a time.
I felt what he felt up there,
She says.
I was him playing the piece,
She says.
I only returned to me when he ended,
She reveals,
Says she cannot fully explain.
A rare gift, I tell her.
To live within another’s space
Even for a moment
Is the writer’s sole wish,
The artist’s dream.
On A Porch As It Rains
Lean back.
Rest,
Hands easy on the knees.
Watch this quenching curtain
Slake the earth
As the sky whispers wet,
And puddles dance specks of life.
The thrumming of drops on leaves
Calms the mind.
The body loses itself
In an indissoluble moment.
Michael Farrell was born in Bayshore, Long Island but moved to the beautiful Finger Lakes region of New York when he was four. He and his wife work from home together. He writes poetry and short fiction.
Sparks of Calliope 