THANKSGIVING

Shall I give thanks for all
the things I never wanted,
for which I never asked?

I'd just as soon return them,
have naught, be not. Yet here
they are, these empty gifts,

unopened boxes, clutter
to fill the corners of life.
No matter; leave them there.

Leave them and give thanks.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

FONTS and MUSIC

I've long kept my eye open for a good font to use in printing out lyric-and-chord sheets for my use. Up until quite recently my choice was Humanist 521 -- looks good, doesn't take up to much space, easy enough to read. The problem was lining things up -- tabs and so on. This is exacerbated if I send a page to someone else who used a different font to view it or if I ever chose to put stuff on line.

The answer, I realized, was to use a fixed space font. Unfortunately, most of them looked bad or didn't read well. Oh, Courier is okay; after all, I typed up a lot of sheets with it long ago!

Then I came across Vera Sans Mono (aka Bitstream Vera Sans Mono). It's sort of like a fixed-width Verdana. Looks pretty good on a monitor, prints out nicely enough, not a space hog so I can (usually) get a line of lyrics across the page, complete with breaks at the bars. And, if I send it to someone as a file (I've taking to saving them all as RTFs) it can display pretty much the same in the equivalent size of Courier.

VSM can be found as a free download here and there. Google it if you're interested. Btw, if you're into programming, it's supposed to be great for writing code.

In other music-related matters, I continue to attempt to get into the studio and actually record something. It's not easy to find the time as I have to keep an eye on Mom pretty much constantly. Thank God I have Rachel, Martha, Bonnie and Ellen to help keep her occupied most afternoons! I just may have to try recording in the middle of the night when she's asleep. When I will sleep then I'm not exactly sure...

I'd been thinking of getting some mastering and/or CD burning software to use here. My old Nero is barely adequate and buggy on the newer Vista machine in the studio. The thought was something Sony, either the full Sound Forge 10 (which probably would have been overkill for my needs) or just CD Architect. Either way, I could write professional Red Book standard CDs. Then I discovered that the newer version of Adobe Audition has full mastering and burning capabilities. That would be Version 3; I have had and occasionally used Version 1 (which is essentially the old Cool Edit Pro by another name.) V1 does not have these capabilities so it had not come to mind but I find I can upgrade for about the same cost as buying CD Architect and get a lot more functionality so that's the way I've gone.

Audition might become my primary DAW from here out or I may use it mostly for mastering. I am rather fond of my old standby from PG Music, Power Tracks, largely because of its midi capabilities.

NESTS

Different degrees of madness
divide us: you from me,
him from her from them.
Each has his own losses.

Each heart's an empty bird's nest,
broken, trampled where
it fell. How will we seek
the life that might have filled it?

Only in the lies
and the truth that lies
between the lies; only
in stories of our madness

are the discarded shells
of dreams once hatched and flown.
Do they nest again,
somewhere, those birds of loss?

Only the degrees
that divide us know
their song. Listen for it;
listen in the forests.

Listen in the dawn
and remember. You've heard it
before, heard its echo
in your empty places.

Listen and know they've flown
beyond your reach. Different
degrees of madness divide us.
Each has his own losses.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

I must admit that the 'nest' metaphor here came from the short stories of Maeve Brennan that I've been reading lately -- a book of her rather melancholy tales set in Dublin (The Springs of Affection). And I suspect that the entire feel of the poem owes to the same source.

The poem may not be much but the stories are good. Brennan was an excellent and concise stylist, something that I tend to appreciate. I do detest (well, maybe that's too strong a word) the long-winded authors popular today. The stories are gems of insight into the inner worlds of the characters, who manage to be both sympathetic and off-putting at once. Much like real people in the real world.

I'm not writing a whole lot lately, nor doing much of anything other than attending to my chores and duties here. My apologies to friends that I am neglecting -- I'll probably continue to do so.

WISE MEN THREE

Wise men three, in the East,
saw a star ascend,
knowing as the light increased
it called them to attend
the birth of one who had no crown
but was the king of men:
a lord to free all who were bound,
the old reign at an end.

Wise men three, from lands far,
from lands beyond the sea,
followed then their shining star,
a star of prophecy.
For by ancient lore they knew
this radiance to be
the emblem of one born to true
royal destiny.

Wise men three traveled thence
in caravan to bring
gifts of myrrh and frankincense
and gold to crown a king.
And on a night when triumphed good,
when death lost its sting,
they with humble shepherds stood
to hear the angels sing.

Wise men three, Magi proud,
to a stable came;
there before the child they bowed
and praised his holy name.
We, travelers from afar as well
have seen that very flame
in our skies its story tell,
the Christ child's birth proclaim.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

An early Christmas poem -- though I've actually been working on it since before last Christmas. Even so, I consider it rough and a candidate for rewriting, revising, polishing.

SECRET IDENTITY

I spent too many years
as Clark Kent. Now I
won't take off my cape,
can't stop flying. It's up,
up and away all the time.

Someday, I'll fall from the sky.
Someday, when I'm no longer
faster than a speeding
bullet. But isn't that
the best way to go out?

To fall, fall, fall as fire,
a comet, an omen. To be,
when I've forgotten my own
secret identity.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

Lately, not much time to create nor keep up with my online friends. So will things continue for a while. Tomorrow is my mother's 91st birthday. Dad made it to a month short of 92 so I reckon I have good genes for longevity. I suspect this will be the last birthday Mom is with us -- not physically but mentally. Her mental decline continues and it seems unlikely I'll be able to care for her on my own much longer.

With the way the online world is changing, I've realized that there is not much purpose in having a bunch of different blogs anymore. It's simpler just to leave links and updates for this, my primary blog, here and there and not bother with Multiply (which I left -- too insular) or Yahoo or such. Of course, the special interest blogs, such as my Lad Designs, will remain.

FIELDS

The air grew heavy with summer
and tomorrow slept in the fields,
dozing among the corn stalks
where cicadas sang

their tuneless lullaby.
There was, that season, a river
we could not cross, flooded
with our illusions. In stages

imperceptible,
it rose as we played
along its bowered banks,
at reckless dreams of love,

sun-lit games born in
the fervor and fever of spring.

There was too much heat,
that summer, too many storms;
we were intoxicated
on secrets and the scent

of fresh-mown fields. We were
carried on the flood
of the river grown wide,
our banks undercut,

our sanctums swept away.
I have slept in those fields,
dreamed with tomorrow
of comings and of goings,

of the wind that turns
in its season. Of summer.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

Something new, at last, and relatively serious. Been hard to concentrate on much lately.

TWO SCARS

I am not conscious of the scars,
most of the time. I do not see
them readily, am not reminded;
both are toward the back of the skull,
one a little higher than
the other, hidden by my hair.

I still have my hair, thank God.

The one is from a gun. No, not
a bullet, a gun. The higher-up,
older mark that would be,
and came not from true malice
but a small automatic thrown
in anger as I walked away.

It didn't go off, thank God again.

I know that's not very exciting.
There is no tale of a fight
nor holdup, just some mild amusement
in visualizing a pissed (and drunken)
woman chucking her pearl-handed
purse gun at my back. I suppose

she could have shot me. Thank God once more.

I did bleed some. As I did
when I got whacked with a steel bar.
That would be the second scar
and, yes, that was malice, not anger,
intended to lay me out. It didn't.
The bar only glanced across the back
of my skull and laid open the scalp.

For which I also am thankful to God.

Anyway, those marks remain,
reminders of who I was and still
am, perhaps. Not a fighter,
not a tough guy, just someone
who's been some places and done some things
and just might again, some day.

And for that, I thank God.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

Though laid out in lines of rough tetrameter, this could just as readily have been formatted as a prose poem. Or prose, period. Very first draft-y, of course, as is most anything I post here, and more of an idea than a finished piece.