The Old Violinist and The Old Dog

July 31, 2013 at 12:58 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

I first saw them a few nights ago

 

They were on the corner of Burrard and Alberni

 

as I rode by on the bus..

 

The dog lay with his head on the sidewalk

 

in peaceful contemplation

 

his eyes closed.

 

The old violinist was vigourously 

 

playing his violin.

 

What melody he played I do not know

 

for the bus windows were closed.

 

An old hippy walked by

 

shaking his head

 

as if to say,

 

You can’t teach an old dog new tricks

 

or an old musician new music.

 

The music he played was obviously

 

pre-Woodstock

 

I figured.

 

Then last night as I walked up Robson Street

 

half-way up between Thurlow and Burrard

 

I saw them-

 

the old violinist

 

and the old dog.

 

The dog once again 

 

his head on the sidewalk

 

in peaceful contemplation.

 

I approached

 

and the melody touched my ears

 

like the softest velvet.

 

Never have I heard

 

Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played

 

so beautifully.

 

As a child,

 

my parents often took me to numerous symphony concerts.

 

I have listened to Vivaldi on radio and TV

 

and Galaxy satellite

 

and never have the beautiful Four Seasons

 

sounded so beautiful.

 

Vancouverites may not know it

 

but the streets of Vancouver are truly blessed 

 

as a master violinist sends his melodies

 

into the air 

 

before the Festival of Lights Fireworks

 

light up the night sky.

 

 

 

-A poem written by Christopher

 Sunday night

 July 28th 2013

 the night after the

 1st round of fireworks

 in the Vancouver Fireworks Festival

 Honda Celebration of Light

 Vancouver, British Columbia.

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Ghosts Galore

July 26, 2013 at 7:32 pm (The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

The entertainer in the pub sang, “I’m Henry VIII I am, I am, I just got married to the widow next door, she’s been married 7 times before and everyone was a Henry – Henr-ee  so that makes me Henry the Eighth I am…”

Outside the pub waiting for him was the ghost of Henry VIII and the ghost of his executioner.

“I didn’t find your song very humourous,” Henry harrumphed, “off with his head.”

The executioner swung his ghostly axe and the axe passed harmlessly through the entertainer’s head.

“I see you don’t know how to manifest spiritual objects into a material reality,”  Pan Goatee laughed as he astral projected by on his way to a replication of the Bohemian Grove ceremony on the banks of the Thames.

“Me?  I thought it was you who was going to bring the statue of the giant owl,”  former British Prime Minister Tony Blair said  in exasperation to the current Archbishop of Canterbury.

                     .         .        .

The ghost of Josef Stalin stood in shock on Brazil’s Copacabana Beach at the massive crowd of young people cheering Pope Francis.

A booming voice seemed to echo out of the heavens,  “Well Joe you stupid ass,  I didn’t think I’d ever see you again after you kicked the bucket.  Well now you know how many soldiers the Pope has.”

Stalin’s ghost looked up and saw a huge cloud in the shape of Sir Winston Churchill’s head smoking a giant cigar.

                        .          .          .

Adolf Hitler’s ghost sat in Rush Limbaugh’s huge dressing room and waited for the enormously stout talk show host to return.

The Fuhrer’s spirit tried to help himself to a piece of chicken from one of the 6 dozen buckets of KFC that sat on the dressing room table awaiting Mr. Limbaugh’s return.

But since he didn’t know how to project material objects into a spiritual reality, he couldn’t.

When Rush returned, the Fuhrer greeted him enthusiastically.

Speaking in a thick German accent and spraying his own moustache with his enthusiasm, the Fuhrer said, “I really love your show and agree with everything you say.  The non-whites in this country are getting far too uppity in my opinion.”

                 .         .         .

The Greek vampire Hades used the remote to turn off his satellite TV and then spoke to one of his aides, “You know the reception is so bad underground.  We really should think about switching over to Cable.”

“I’ll look into it, sir,”  his aide replied.

“But still despite the blurry picture, it still gives me some idea of the chaos that exists above,” Hades helped himself to some pomegranate seeds, “we must see what we can do about getting Cerberus back to his guard dog position again so we can stop all these damned spirits from crossing back over the River Styx to the world above.”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” his aide remarked.

“It’s all so frustrating,”   Hades hit his forehead, “where’s Persephone when you really need her?  All this masturbation starts to get on one’s nerves after a while.”

“You’re forgetting that it’s summer on Mount Olympus, sir,” his aide reminded him.

“Why doesn’t anyone remember to turn over the page on this damned calendar?” Hades snapped as he turned over the calendar several pages.

                 .           .            .

On one side of the River Styx,  Chris de Burgh sang, “Don’t pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side…”

On Mount Olympus, Vincent Price spoke as he watched Michael Jackson dance on the moon,  

“Darkness falls across the land,
The midnight hour is close at hand…”

To be continued.

-A vampire novel chapter 
written by Christopher
Friday July 26th 2013

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Reflections of Chandler and Marlowe In The Hot Humid Heat of The City

July 17, 2013 at 12:11 am (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

Image

 

 

Hot humid day in Vancouver

the most humid since I’ve moved here 8 months ago

I walk the streets of the City 

like I’m Philip Marlowe

since Raymond Chandler’s prose

always describes hot muggy days in LA

when his private eye is out

walking about.

Coincidentally I see a whole bunch of women out today

wearing evening dresses

and they don’t appear to be part of a wedding party

Just out and about wearing evening dresses

on a day hot and humid at that.

I really feel like I’m in a Chandler novel today

hot and humid and feeling sticky 

out on the sidewalks and streets

and hotter women in hot tight dresses 

making a sizzling summer day

sizzle even more.

 

 

-A poem written by Christopher

 Tuesday July 16th 2013

 a hot and humid day

 in Vancouver, British Columbia.

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