WHEN SAXOPHONES ARE GRAY
Doomsayers, we wait for news of Damascus'
ruinous heap, the next tough snuff,
or the latest apocalypso line dance.
Outdoor stuff is put up for the winter
as northeasters return
with usual bluster and gray gusto.
Where the band played to the pristine bay
carried along on cool blue
the wind battered screens moan another song.
Pathetic sighs of apocalypse, broadcasters
Intrigued by the El Nino inner shine
of world revelation and reconditioning,
like an interlude between life and death,
a far off point of light
remains in the sudden wave of gray.
I watch the newscaster glaze over darkly
with wars and rumors,
something he wrote between breakfast and lunch.
Planets shift through remaining spooky nights
dealing the Aquarian dream,
pretending to tinker with my tarnished brass-works.
Venus and the sea-god resolve our objections,
wake up our magicians,
replace everything with Aquarian arc-blue.
The polish and promise are still part of the shimmer,
and all is fulfilled like a flowered covenant.
Saxophones, long gone, molder in their cases
and children drift in and out
pulling petals from vines of gray-haired music.
ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2010