Joseph Farley

The piano is afraid of the cello.
It does not know why but it is.

The drums exist in their own world.
The horns, close by, waiver in loyalty,

longing for the violins and violas,
but knowing the brass section is exiled

to a land of greater noise.

The conductor sees all,
but ignores as much as possible

such discord in practice and concert.

It is her job to make all rise above
the petty squabbles,

insecurities, rivalries, foolishness
of so many instruments

assembled for a purpose,
greater than their own,

and lead them, as best she can,
in finding a harmony

greater than the sound
of so many individuals

so near to each other’s throats.

In the mud and murk
Trout hide well
Along with turtles
And tadpoles.

A body however
Would be easier
To find
Unless chopped small.

A creek yay deep
Is better for concealing
The small and living
Than the big and dead.

Still, people try.
The water looks deeper
Than it is
And strangers
Who pull up in cars
With loaded trunks

Don’t realize
How many hooks
Probe the dark green
Of a summer day.

You look once
and see magic.

You look again
and see nothing at all.

That’s the way it goes kids.
Miracles are all in the timing.

Get it wrong
and it’s just another game of cards.

in the year of second sight
all looked back and not ahead
so they missed the chance
to fool the future
and were forced to suffer again
a past not worth repeating.

You will deny
knowing me,

and I will deny
knowing you,
and all will deny
where they were,

and what they said
and did,

chastened by the fires
that still burn.

At the end of this day
another begins.

The sun burning through your window
replaces the moon.

What is night with eyes closed?
Forget the darkness.

You are here and all is good.
The sky, the grass, the stones

exist for your viewing pleasure.
Ignore temptation

to listen to the devil
reminding this will all end,

and may have already,
since you’ve been trying so hard

not to notice.

It waits
it lingers
it need not hide
but bides its time
evil knows
there will always be
a next time
another chance
to make mayhem
cause pain
and destroy
all that we
poor ants that we are
have assembled
out of sand

Forget the meaning of “this” or “that.”
Imagine no language,
an entanglement of minds,
confused as tree branches
reaching for the sky,
not understanding or sure
they want to.

The truth was just outside the cave.
That’s what we were told,
but none was brave enough to check.
So we stayed in the dark with the shadows,
silhouettes and shapes mistaken for much more,
enough for the majority on most nights.
Only when too much has happened
can we find the strength to stare down that tunnel
searching for the light of better days.

Let the walls tumble
and the horns sound.
There’s money to be made
from all that rubble.
Removal, repair, reconstruction.
Jobs. Jobs. Jobs.
Hold back not your valor.
Your economy needs you.
Fight as though your wallet
depends on it.