A Moonlight Sonata

The air was golden and quiet and the summer day was slipping away on the breeze like a dripping clock. She saluted the setting sun and looked deep into the horizon. The hay in the fields smelled sweet, of memories and childhood. She took a running leap off of the closed veranda and onto the slate stepping stones, which her brother had crafted himself. He was so proud of those stepping stones, smooth and cool against her soft leather slippers.

She walked slowly into the dusk. A dark blue breed of calm settled around her and permeated her thoughts. It was quiet, a tranquil silence, a well-trained demon. The sun had nearly set and a royal purple flush overcame her. She picked up her pace, breaking into a run before the shadows would catch up to her height; an old superstition, a childish fantasy, but her brother had always been so convincing that even in adulthood she carried this fear with her.

The iron gate creaked as she pushed it open, her heart thudding inside of her chest, her pulse racing under her eyelids, paint flakes falling from the hinges. She cleared her throat, mustered up a bit of courage, and began. “I haven't seen you for awhile.” No response. “I almost thought you wouldn't be here. It's been so long. I'm still afraid of the dark, you know. It's frightening.” She touched the edge of her skirt and fiddled with the ivory lace before continuing. “I've brought my violin. To play your favorite sonata.”

She lifted the bow and began to ease notes out of the worn instrument, a filial heirloom. Ancient melodies lifted into the night air, and the violin sang softly in the dim, dark evening.

Several hours past. The wind stirred the leaves in the trees, and the moon shone full and bright over the graveyard. She kissed the gravestone and played the violin even as she left the cemetery where her brother lay.

This Fine Sculpture Entitled "Red Paint on Roman Wood-Cross"

A day in the life of Good King David,
pale and trodden with his
leather physician's bag full of typewriter keys, a ruby sceptre and
the broken stethoscope
(irony is a virtue)
and the glasses dripping with remorse
and twinkling with dry fanaticism.
The Aramaic tattoo on his left forearm reads
“I'm Jewish but I agree to disagree with the Sanhedrin”
(even though he can't speak Aramaic in the least)
and his laughter is like rain showers in August
because they start as the earth is crying for mercy
--his people, on bended knee, screaming--
and then the sound ends so quickly you forget you were listening to him at all.
A day in the life of a self-proclaimed martyr,
with rusted treasure chests proclaiming the new covenant of His Blood
(its a difficult measure, what's hot and what's not)
to be a Shakespeare but to insist one is completely unlike anything ever written,
how retro-chic!
He sits on his throne,
tearing miserably at his golden crown, wailing
“I am nothing, I am dust,
but worship me, if you please.”
He says this because he is King
but he is still human
and not even the high King might escape the darkness of humanity.
He'd like to advertise the Messiah, Yeshuah in his day.
Alas: he's far too busy with his harp and his girl
to introduce his people to a carpenter.