trumpets rouse the troops
waiting green grass turning red
harps sing soothing souls
inspired by Ambrose
music
02 December
my hands are not skilled in music
my hands are not skilled in prayer
but I have my voice
my voice my words
inspired by Rafał
Clara and the painter
When Clara opened the door five years ago and let me in, a man was singing opera in another room. It’s the painter, she said, and said no more.
We sipped coffee from delicate white cups and I wondered what sort of artist would sing as he created. Clara flushed and called me bourgeois, incapable of understanding that even workers could appreciate fine things. He was painting the walls.
My cup tipped in its saucer as I lowered it towards the fine lace mat. I righted it and Clara flushed again. Her grandmother had had the sight and saw the future in the grounds.
You should leave, she said.
I did not see her again until a moment ago outside the pavement café. She was pushing a pram and I raised my cup to salute her. She did not respond. Perhaps she did not see me. I did not stand.
in your eyes a lighted candle
in your eyes a lighted candle
yesterday remains and burns forever
as one door closes, another
whispering lofi
whispering lofi
all energy fully spent
your smiling brown eyes
I had a playlist
I had a playlist
a playlist for life
until that moment late last night
when you shuffled me
Close your eyes
Close your eyes and the stars spiral to their own music, the sky the softest black. Touch.
Fade in…
Fade in to the music that plays in his head when he thinks of her. The chorus arrives then sticks sticks like old vinyl. Fade out.
A sign of life
A sign
a sign
of life
of life
is all
is all
I need
[pause]
is all
is all
is all
I need
[pause]
is all
is all
is all I need
[pause]
A sign of life
of life
is all I need
is all
is all
is all I need
[pause]
[pause]
[pause]
A sign
a sign
of love
of love
is all
is all
I ask
[pause]
is all
is all
is all
I ask
[pause]
is all
is all
is all I ask
[pause]
A sign of love
of love
is all I ask
is all
is all
is all I ask
[pause]
[pause]
[pause]
A song
a song
of love
of love
is all
is all
I have
[pause]
is all
is all
is all
I have
[pause]
is all
is all
is all I have
[pause]
A song of love
of love
is all I have
is all
is all
is all I have
A song of love is all I have
Writing prompt: Caruso
“Hey Maestro!”
“What?”
“You’re late with your payments again.”
“Yeah, guys, I know. These phonographs are starting to sell like the hot cakes but I’ve just been so unlucky on the tables….”
“Yeah, right. Now, Maestro, this is nothing personal. But money is money and a debt is a debt. And Signor F is getting just the little bit impatient. Now, you know he would never hurt such a beautiful voice, the voice of the angels, you know that right? But what about your family? What about your wife’s little cagnolino, her little puppy? You wouldn’t want anything to happ-”
“OK. Stop it right there. What is this? A prompt with an Italian and suddenly we’re all Padrino? What next? Spaghetti and meatballs and sleeping with the fishes?”
The writer lifted her fingers from the keyboard and the voice in her head fell silent. Every time. Every time she thought she could get started again, the writer’s block descended.
simonsalento 