Vienna Poems

TVR Books | Jack Kendrick | February 2010

A return to Vienna


A return to Vienna,

Meant a return of so many

Ghosts, of the people

Of my heart, with whom I

Had danced, on, and

Off, the stages of the city,

With reprieves of dreams

And pleasures, in the green

Of the country sides,

Under the shadows of mountain

Inns, and in the fields

Of harvest, under the heat of

The passionate blankets of

Sunflowers, surrounded by the

Perfume of the silent

Clover, lying on warm mattresses

Of the newly cut hay.



My seat in the Vienna Concert Hall


My seat in the Vienna Concert Hall,

Was way up, in the very back row,

In the clouds of an Austrian heaven,

And my searching eyes could see

No apparent faces, but only the backs

Of individual heads, with a variety

Of shapes, and sizes, and some with

Shiny mirrors of baldness, framed

With different ears of hanging flaps,

With human antennas, directing the

Swivels of their heads, and necks,

Looking like frozen flags, waving in

All directions, conducted by the

Rhythms, and whims of their curiosity.

My father breathed

his music


My father breathed his music,

From his old violin,

But, not with his own hands,

Rather in the arms of

A young musician, who played

Some Irish melodies,

From within his Jewish heart,

And soul, with his dark

Hair combining his offerings

With the memories of my

Father, and his own black hair,

And the music burned new

Tears into my blood of warm

Remembrances, that stifled

My breathing into creating my

Own blood of dark incense.



Music creates daydreams


Music creates daydreams,

Without asking,

Like a supreme arm of God,

Directing a lasting

Sedative, through the evening,

Leading to a fasting

Of a Catholic Lenten suffering,

Into a hungry chastening.

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