Poems
Movements
In the magic of the hall
from where the stream of her beamed in black,
Under the muted light of the son,
The movement began.
Slow, like a deep, lasting kiss
It ambled through the air
Dispensing its eminence,
Mingling with other eternal beauties
Present
Were crescendos
Causing emotions
to conduct my romantic sense.
What has moved us for two hundred years
has not ceased.
We fall under spells
Of eyes, words, moments,
The heart moves
As movements progress,
To the aural caress.
Our souls are swayed by the strings
Of hearts caught in time.
Music links us to moments
we never really leave.
The movements of so many varied symphonies
That compose our lives,
Run through them
Like a river meandering,
Never straight but true.
Caught in the currents of its time
We are stirred to tears.
What is evoked is
the mystery
Of our lives may be contained
in those black, brilliant notes,
and in the sotto voce of her gaze,
As she sits, majestically,
Under the light of her son,
Under the spell of the master,
Our master
The heart.