Pull the spinning heart from the chest;
Sinatra...sometimes is doesn't stain...
It's dust, not blood, that spills
From the speakers and dials we couldn't reach
Under a hinged lid
When we used to stand in line for dinner,
Like a textbook photo, in the tiled entry
Of a strip center restaurant,
Washed by jazz
And the breath of summer asphalt.
But this throat and heart--
Sinatra on wax nerves unremembered--
Polish it until we decide
How to replace the music,
The vestigial turntable,
Those days.
Sharing this week with The Sunday Muse for a music-inspired prompt and with Poets United, which also began with a lovely hymn to rebuilding after war. I've been relying on music this week...we ended up having what seemed like simple repair turn into an ever-larger ceiling surgery...ergo, I've been sitting on the porch when I can with iced coffee and 80's music and watching the bees. Pretty sure I've become a semi-permanent feature on minor bee backroads. :) Pretty sure that's going to become a short story title at some point. 
Hope you're having a kind week & have plenty of chances to go outside and breathe for a few minutes, if nothing else.
--chrissa
How to replace the music, the vestigial turntable, those days........sigh. Yes, I feel it! Yikes re your ceiling. May it soon be whole again. Is that wisteria in the photos? Heavenly blooms.
ReplyDeleteIt is wisteria. We don't have anything strong enough to support it, so it just tumbles across the yard in the spring.
DeleteBefore Sanatra, methinks.
ReplyDeleteI can just hear the jazz in my imagination from your descriptive words, Chrissa
We never can replace the music when it is gone. I have an old Victrola that was my mother's with inch thick records and funny odd tunes. Once in a while I wind it up and listen to the records. The songs of distant days.
ReplyDelete"How to replace the music,
ReplyDeleteThe vestigial turntable,
Those days"
There is so much longing in these lines, Chrissa! Beautifully evocative write ❤️
“Of a strip center restaurant,
ReplyDeleteWashed by jazz
And the breath of summer asphalt.”
Those lines dance on the skin and memory, creating images of loved things and of things that can be loved (if we hold on to hope).
I really liked this, music is so important, and some of phrasing reminded me of "American Pie" more than Sinatra...
ReplyDeleteBut of course we all have our own music... for me 80s would be great.
Your wisteria is beautiful and so is your poem, Chrissa.
ReplyDeleteThe old songs will never sound quite the same way they did before the troubles came, but they take on a new quality - as reminders that some things can endure - that give them a deeper beauty.
ReplyDeleteAh those bygone tunes … they have a way of waking and evocating something as nebulous as: 'the breath of summer asphalt'. So wonderfully descriptive, Chrissa. Love it!
ReplyDeleteLove this from title to those days! Wonferful, magical and lovely! Your imagery is always a delight!
ReplyDeletewhat an evocative, lovely poem.
ReplyDeletei used to play vinyl but my hifi is gathering dust now, and 80's music is fine with me.
hope the ceiling is okay now. :)
Evokes such nostalgia, sweet notes from the past.
ReplyDeleteSo much that can't be replaced ... but it's nice to remember.
ReplyDeleteI love that scene... the bees, the turntable, the music... the memories.
ReplyDelete
ReplyDelete“The breath of summer asphalt” - something about that line sparked some childhood memories. Lovely!
It is my weekly treat to come here and see what you've written. You never disappoint. Ah, Sinatra. I like him. I have a fondness for old standards. I love Cole Porter songs especially. Sinatra, James Darren (Vic Fontaine), Dinah Shore, Blossom Dearie, Keely Smith--they all frequently play on my stereo. (I love 80s as well.) Anyway, it is the small things that bring back a memory, most often. My parents had one of those cabinet radios when I was small. The radio didn't work anymore, but the record player did, and I used to play my inherited 78 rpm records--Song of the South, Little Orly--on it.
ReplyDelete