Get Lost

Get lost
in the music.
Lay down
in the headphones.

Rainy Sunday.
February
slush/crushed Italian ice
in a grey, concrete cone.

The Duke.
And, of course,
there’s
Billie.

Stanley Clarke,
and toocool Miles.

February rain –
with a sparkle
like cut-glass crystals
on smogged, Citywindows
and tarpapered roofs.

 

Impression

Shades of brown
wrapped soft around
an upright mahogany bass.
Long sweet chocolate fingers dressed
in silvered turquoise rings caress
taut, waiting strings that sing
like me
and ripple through the smile on your face.

 

The Necromancer

He sat suddenly,
transfixed by the fleeting glance
from the kohl-streaked eyes
of the princess,
Ibtahaj,
Namibian dancer

and j
a
z
z
z
z

chantress
or was it the reflecting
glitter of her silver headress
and the omnipresent sandalwood insence
engulfing him until
he hardly noticed how intent his focus
on the lotus in her hand itself
a modus operandi for hypnosis
that pulled him downward by osmosis
to the
tesselate
musical mosaic

l
a
y
i
n
g
down

by an Arkestra dressed
as pharoahs blowing
saxophones
‘bones
and trumpets
beating bass
piano
bashing drums
in
the mirage fantasy Ibtahaj cast.
With her
tactile modality
elegant
intertextuality
she imposed nuanced prose
interwove it among the musics strolling,
unrolling from the stage
to wrap him

deep
within the scroll
of an avant-garde
Village Vanguard-Egyptian stanza
romantic talisman
of oasis sands
sifting through his hands
the Sphinx waving palm leaf fans
pyramids and dromedaries
on the banks of the Nile
as
Sun Ra
bent
to
smile
and whisper in his ear

Embraze chaos.

Spa-a-a-a-azze
iz thuh
pla-a-a-a-azze
………
…….
…..
…
.

About Vi Ransel

Vi Ransel’s poetry appears in print and online. She conducts poetry workshops and gives readings in Central New York. She’s just finished her latest chapbook, Sine Qua Non Antiques (an Arcanum of History, Geography and Treachery). She can be reached at [email protected].