an open page with scornful frown
enlightened by stillness,
bolstered by the stiffening breeze

a still beating insurgent heart
that glows in the dark like a rose
an apple or the sacred host.

The beat heart of a deadbeat
who sings the blues
down the jaded throat of jazz
blowing coded chords
thru' the long captive night of the soul
like some schizoid avenging angel
lashed to the mast of a ship
adrift on an ageless ocean.

Face shaved hair freshly parted
face so packed with meaningful expression
it makes you tremble
face of America trying to make sense
of everything that has happened.

John Clarke

THE NOD

You think he's on the nod
         but he's not
he's listening & he's watching
he's cookin' away inside wonderin'
         which note to play next

when he's ready he'll
         give the signal
he won't say a word
         not the flicker of an eyebrow
not a wink of his left eye
         not the faint motion of a hand

he'll just show the pencil
         of a smile
then he'll nod
         just nod

John Clarke