“Church Chime”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-24)

 

My head rattles like a loose string on a Precision bass

Not wound tightly enough

Coiled coyly inside the case

But resonating

Loudly contemplating

What fret is the proper space

That I should occupy

With my digits dancing

Fancifully romancing

Excuse me while I kiss the sky

When I think of my amplifier trio

Buried under wrong-sized shirts and trousers

Hanging low

In the closet

It gives me pause to know

That I’ve waited so long for the opportunity

The chance chase of artistic immunity

That might deliver me from my lack of haste

Tonal touches

Played out in a progression of melodic rushes

They are clear enough to hear

Between my ears

Yet each time that I reach for those electrified strings

I tumble into a mess of things

Tapping keys

On my wordsmithing spree

In a home office, replete

With reams of text punched out, in black ink

Decidedly neat

Channeling what I think

A typewriter ribbon spooled

From a replacement set bought for a buck

A half-hearted rigging

To compensate for not having a catalog, for luck

The letter-blocks were set

I thought my aim was correct

Dark on top, red on the bottom

I had pondered this modification since the first day of autumn

With parts for a Royal KMM made after the war

Function following form

Dozing in my chair

I hear the squawk of an automotive horn

A neighbor out in the street

Seeking favor, willingly wanting to compete

With the audio feed I imagine to be legitimate

Imaginary, yet compelling

Sweetly echoing

As I crouch at the desk

Tempting fate with this silent petition

Which, on the inside is not nimble

Like the cautious push of grandma’s thimble

I can hear every note played

But the damned, notebook page

Is ungratefully blank

I have no one but myself to thank

For this error made

This smear of jelly and marmalade

Sticky down my chin

With butter and crumbs of toast

Should I defer to these symphonic scholars

Or wickedly boast

Of my intent?

I wanted to pluck out a three-chord, cowboy ditty

With lyrics borrowed from the mind of Walter Mitty

But here I sit

Failed and foolish, humming to be sure

That I caught the flash of a lightning bug

In the cork-stoppered confines of a cider jug

While tapping my foot

1-2-3-4

Toes flat on the kitchen floor

I look around wondering what awaits

Behind that hanging slate

With an inscription scribbled in chalk

A quote quipped during my morning walk

“Losers lament a currency unspent!”

To be free of riddles, perplexing and pointed

One must climb boldly over the rocks

To a testy ticking of cackling, cuckoo clocks

That is the method taught

Well described in professorial thought

And the liturgy of a priest on Sunday

While I whistled, low

At the truth he was about to bestow

Hands folded

So as not to be scolded

Meekly meeting with my peers

Wishing that instead of a church chime

I could make my compositions appear

But the moment is stilled

I am weak-willed

So, the shadow is cast

Through panes of stained glass

In another realm of reason, I must believe

That my song has been sung

And goodwill has been done