After the Dance

After the dance is done
she lingers, casually flitting
her feet defy the convention
that home is now the place to be

They, those that made the music
pack up lightly talking amongst themselves
scarcely noticing the waif waiting just beyond
their reach - it is because she allows them room

busy packing, making and taking inventory, does it all fit
She does not notice their wives - waiting, drinking, smoking without smoke
unlit cigarettes twirling - she does not care
It is not them she is in love with - it is the magic they bring
with instruments and voice - the movement of her being
the energy of flow, floating up and down and around
Rhythm, just rhythm - no blues - blues got left standing by the wall

She does not know it - she does not care
she is seduced by the spell that was here tonight
special magic made by men, machines and angels
there had to be angels for sound so rare
Her feet are dancing, even as the floor becomes bare
Solo, she is the last one there

While Waiting for Thunder

Sitting in exile, looking in the mirror

in the next room, she lies
to me, I want to see sunshine
I want to feel rain
but all I see is shadows
and mud
Speaking with angels can be a lonely pursuit
First there is the finding of them
then there is the translation to
here and now, that place I am
Then I go back to her
and tell her what I see
there is, in her eyes a fog
and that fog is me
Perhaps today that cloud will angry up itself
Grow dark with moisture
and flash
so brightly that everyone will see
remarking at its brilliance
they will hold ears ready
for what boom may be
She says
you are my sunshine, you are my rain
nothing more, nothing else
will be

©Frank Coughlin May 2011