Saturday, December 22, 2012

Little Brother Gila Monster

last of the gila monsters

Time was as rivers run dry
                        Where does an echo go to die?

this planet dies
scattered by cosmic winds…
No more canyons to echo
the beaded songs
of my little brother,
Gila Monster

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

A Fold In Space

Who gnu?

After rhyme declined in 1899
people began to weigh their words.
Rather than timing the rhyming
literally, they found
sound has an affinity
for much larger harmonies.

A word’s weight is different than the
sound of the thing.

Some words echo when not said out loud
Some words rise like mist off the page
Some words cannot walk alone
Some words act differently
Some words find old souls
Some words can swim
Some words are for the future found
Some words were never here
Some words have music in them
Some words... without a sound
Some words cannot be taken back
Some words will never be forgiven
Some words are misunderstood
Some words fit perfectly
Some words are poetry
Some people believe
the new cannot be true.
Old ways are the only ways for them.

But, when things have changed like this,
there is no going back.

Not long ago
the shortest distance
between two points
was a line.
Now the shortest distance
between two points
is a fold in space.

Friday, December 14, 2012

I Wonder (when I smell flowers)

little bird with blossoms

I Wonder (when I smell flowers)

How can our hearts
Beat as one
On the day
Innocence is gone

When part after part is rotten to the bone,
And everywhere dark touches leaves love losing us

Some mornings don't fit
Into the day before it's done
A moment lasts forever
For a mother and her son
And fathers little girl
Will not run through the door
With laughter, hugs and kisses
Any more, any more

Can you hear the children play
There are voices in the breeze today
And if we listen carefully
They will be more than a memory

Time does not take love away
Love keeps the heart beating
And slowly finds the rhythm of the wind
In the air that we all share

I wonder when I smell flowers
And hear the ripples in the trees
If my brothers and my sisters
Are not still here with me

Peach ~ December 14, 2012
my brothers and sisters
Newtown, Connecticut
and for
the rest of us

Friday, November 16, 2012

Eleventh Heaven

Satchmo on cloud 9 looking up to the eleventh heaven

If heaven is another way of looking,
Show me the eleventh
And, I’ll know I have gotten where I’m going.

Surprise me with hind-walking cats
Who know my name…
With triplet-enhanced background music,
And incandescent nighthawks that soar,
Infinitely silhouetted by salmon suns.

I can imagine, aching,
Happening at the same time…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Surrounded by curious sounds,
I never knew the wind in the trees
Would be so interesting.

            ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gertrude Stein*

Doris Day
Sid and Nancy
If heaven exists I am convinced that there is more than one. I just can’t see Satchmo and Doris Day on a cloud with Johnny Rotten. A Gertrude Stein and a George Steinbrenner heavenly hereafter would seem to be mutually exclusive.
George Steinbrenner
Being only an opinion, my take on heaven has no scholarly basis. I have what can only be referred to as a, “preconceived notion.”
 I have not researched the subject of heaven. I would hate to have the product of intense, thorough research get in the way of my beliefs.
This being so, I have determined that that there are at least as many heavens as there are dimensions. And, since I have always been attracted to music from the eleventh dimension, I choose the eleventh.
I like the sound of that. The colors, form constructs, alien geometries, plants and animals resonate with my soul instrument. It is an odd number and that appeals to me.
If heaven is another way of looking at things, show me the eleventh.
                                                                                                ~ Peach

*Gertrude Stein (1935), photographed by Carl Van Vechten
all photos public domain
© 2012 Jimmy The Peach 

Sunday, November 04, 2012

Talking -- with Charles Lloyd

Charles Lloyd

Sheets of swallows
outside my window,
around the corner,
the saxophone
swings singing
into a slow song.

The melody dream streams
and spreads
where my heart starts.

The piano knows when (not) to play,
painting silent spots,
then, time-fingering the keys with
hummingbird kisses, wings brushing wings.

Drums, thrum –
running without touching down,
pushing the sound around.

The bass chases.

wash ashore,
the music peaking,
then gently speaking
love’s secrets.

I turn my head…
hear the wind,

h         a          r          m        o          n         y

Arlington, Virginia -- September 16, 2009 / November 4, 2012 -- Originally published in a more abbreviated form in Westward Quarterly (Spring, 2010)
My introduction to Charles Lloyd was around 1974 I paid fifty cents for a used vinyl record of the "Charles Lloyd in Europe" album. Atlantic 1966. Recorded live in Norway October 29, 1966. Charles Lloyd sax and flute, Keith Jarrett piano, Cecil McBee bass, Jack DeJohnette drums. First time I heard any of them. Still one of my favorite albums.
            My two favorite cuts on the album are “Tagore” and “Karma.” Go to 9:40 on the video to hear “Tagore.”

photo from Official Charles Lloyd Web Page
Charles Lloyd Bio

Saturday, November 03, 2012


shhhhh... listen

Not a distance,
just more than a man since he’s gone.

Somewhat sculpted by anger
and an uncommon touch,
I hear he talked
to the floor with his horn.

The same note never played
the same way again.

remember his silence
between the sounds?

Taught others to speak
for themselves

At the end
he still had more to say
in a new way.
So What.

                                                  Arlington, Virginia

photo public domain

Thursday, November 01, 2012

From the Book of Spring

from the Book of Spring

spring is behind
empty robin eggs…
geese are gone

Each page of the Book of Spring says something… nothing… everything. A volume filled with the sound of things arriving for the first time, of things returning. When taken together, the pages are a song of colors where there were no colors.
Sandhill Cranes and Whistling Swans arrive with spring then continue north before summer slips in.
Robins split from their winter Flockopolis and build nests of twitter, split hairs and side effects in tall bushes and spring trees, in steeples, edges of attics, and dabbed on brick ledges outside the common room window.
While they hook up, breed and brood, I ask the Commonwealth of Virginia, “Does Virginia have an official name for the color of a robins egg?”
“It’s light blue to you,” they say.
“For the record,” I whisper, “I hear eleven shades of blue I know are true.”

When every robins nest is empty
And the Tule Swan is gone,
Warm up with the first
Symphony of Summer Song.
Awaken scarlet-splashed blackbirds
In a mustard field at dawn…
Each year that much older,
Another season has moved on.

Written while the sun went down
NewMain, Virginia
- Peach
red-winged blackbird
photo Alan D. Wilson,

Monday, October 29, 2012

Breaking Up With Sandy - The Rope Boys Are At The Door

"Big Boy" Flyer

5:47pm Northern Virginia.
            Still raining but more windy. Drove over to Columbia Pike for emergency supplies.
1 gallon Lemonade
2 Magnums of Canada Dry Ginger Ale

1 Jumbo Petroleum Jelly
4 Large Petroleum Jelly
            Let me tell you why petroleum jelly belongs in the emergency kit. And yes, petroleum jelly is the generic term for Vaseline®.
            Yesterday I mounted, attached, a window well cover outside the west facing window here in the Bamboo Room. Drilled holes in the bricks, slathered on a clear silicone sealant and screwed that baby in. The sealant promised a watertight seal after 3 hours.
            During the recording of today’s ArtChat Podcast I noticed dripping inside of the cover. I went out and discovered the sealant had not dried and sealed. With gusts up around 50 and the hard rain the sealant had been washed and worn away. And that is when I thought, “Vaseline!”
            Brilliant. Had about a third of a jar in the Bamboo Room closet.
Goat Head by Ai Wei Wei
            Man, it was windy. I pried off the cover from the jar and the wind whipped it out of my fingers, out of sight in the direction of the front yard. Who cares? I slathered every bit of petroleum left in the jar along the edges where the sealant had washed away. The wind was slapping me with the umbrella while I was dabbing gobs of jelly in the cracks and crevasses of the cover.
            That Vaseline went on real slick, but, I thought, what if that washes away, or another window leaks or the basement floods? I needed more of that colorless goo.
            Now I am back at the beginning of this page. My present caught up to my present so to speak.
            And now for the weather report.

            Here are some pictures of the work I did on the window and in the background I captured in great detail the warp and weft and whisking motion of the maples in the high winds. I just checked the temperature. It is 74 degrees here in the Bamboo Room and the winds are calm. Humidity is right around 93% and the dew point is actually not due for a few more hours. I will get back to you on that. Oh, and the story of Victor and Vernon - The Rope Boys.

Breaking Up With Sandy - The first wave hello

               I just did a walk around the Bamboo Room. Looking for leaks. The windows are holding. It’s still early, 12:55pm in Northern Virginia. The Weather Channel says that power could go out any time. How does it work if an advertiser pays for placement but the power goes out where the ads were paid to play? Who cares?
               I have been bombarded with the message that Sandy will be a catastrophic event. I understand now how people told to evacuate, don’t. I mean, it is like my brain doesn't flip into “fight or flight.” Through the windows I see rain and the maple trees. The rain, moved by the wind, slaps the sides of things and skips off the street before settling down into the gutters, then collects under the street and joins joins with other tributaries to drain into the Potomac.
               This is all much less energetic than the special effects on a cheesy, made-for-tv disaster flick.
               Sandy is such a personable, informal name for a storm. Sort of like naming the two nuclear bombs dropped on Japan Little Boy and Fat Man. How often big things star with little things, though. 

Friday, October 12, 2012

Big Gene's Beat

Summer stops on the sidewalk
and I'm back in Bakersfield. seven,
on the cool wet sidewalk.
The sprinklers water the
Girard’s lawn and my legs from the
knees down,
the golden hair on my
July mahogany legs.

Not just a tan -
ironing skin we call it because
it is still warm in front of the tv
when Ed Sullivan introduces the Beatles
and right that second badminton racquets,
badminton racquets became guitars.

Tuesday, October 09, 2012

Roses the Twins

          First of all, they are not identical twins. They look nothing like each other.
          “We aren’t related,” I once heard them say, in unison.
          Roses the Twins live with blue herons upstream where the river slows into little mirror pools. They are about my age, whatever that is. Like me, they have lived in newMain as long as I can remember. It makes them smile to be addressed as Roses. They have such nice smiles and so that is what I do.
          Roses the Twins share a bicycle. Not a two-seater, mind you. They are always coming up with a new surprise when they ride their bicycle.
          I’ve seen them riding with Roses the Twins on the seat while Roses the Twins pumps the pedals standing up. Another time Roses the Twins sat on the handlebars, legs stretched forward on either side of the front wheel, Roses the Twins on the seat behind her, both hands on the handlebars. Oh, and I saw Roses the Twins sitting pretty as you please on the bicycle. arms straight out to the side, while Roses the Twins ran alongside pushing the bicycle.
          One day I saw all three in the Evening Meadow, both Roses the Twins and the bicycle. They were stretched out on a picnic blanket, eating little sandwiches of homemade bread and some of the cheese Ginny sells.
          Even the bicycle looked happy.

Friday, October 05, 2012

"To Herd Dogs" - an excerpt

with Kindness-Loving-Us

Such pretty flowers, these
night flowers need to be touched.
They don’t look like much after dark,
with full moonlight.
pale tungsten.

A cold glow
warm to the touch.

                       Deer blossoms
How so these flowers grow…
Who waters these deer blossoms?
In my hand, like music.
Two notes,
a happy interval of petals.

Autumn comes to this meadow.
She comes
where the night is sleeping.

Yes tonight,
she comes where the night is sleeping.

                       She says…

“This is
a good place

-- Peach

Thursday, October 04, 2012

The Cockatoo Lounge

Don't feed the cockatoo.

        I saw a picture today. A fella had fastened a big wood chair to a tree limb about twenty feet off the ground. A big chair made with weathered white planks. The note with the picture said he calls it the Cockatoo Lounge.

        I imagine I could be happy in the Cockatoo Lounge. Of course, I’d have to either add stools and chairs to the tree, or build the damn thing around the tree. Wheelchair access, gotta have access and mobility for those that wants to partake of the fruits and pleasures of the Cockatoo Lounge.

                                                            only one chair in

                                                            the Cockatoo Lounge...