APRIL FOOLS US

April fools us
by a Muse's amazing ways
who spells it out
under her nature's breath
with a hundred excuses
from our winter's guest
since being in our nest
offering a feathered high five
yet hands us birthdays
of a survivor's success
making us feel alive
from under the weather
wanting to sea dive.

Now we play chess or boccie
on grounds once covered
with snow white memory,
waiting for a fairy tale spring
contained in nature's secrets
whispering our earth-wise regrets
for being four months indoors
with cabin fever
now we rest with Jason
our golden retriever,
soon to recover the shock
by the changing of our clock,
being wall flowers
now going wild
near the river bed
from newly planted saplings
arranged in the countryside
by gardeners on the dock.

Humming birds are freely
flying by the seaweed basin
on a deserted Bay side beach,
here a lone jazz poet
plays an alto sax
in his own paced awkwardness
breathing out on the sand
reaching for his solitary exercises
at his arm's length
from troubled sharps and B flat
augmented in solo sounds
as any cool cat.

His wounded double life
emerges as a musical poet
and jagged Beat
he still turns up the heat
in lyrical volume to sing out
his speech of floating blues
on fresh blankets to recover
his love for language,
as we follow him by the Cape
known for his long black locks
of unfolding hair
and a one day Whitman beard,
whose life is on loan
composing his daring verse
from a thousand notes
draped in soft tones.

Perhaps a few beach combers
may often remember him
as that nonconformist
who quoted Baudelaire
and outlived his day dreams
by drinking in his good words
and refusing a rocking chair,
he is still heard in rare echoes
reciting from a book of Thoreau
by the woods and shore
of early morning songbirds
in voice overs
from his jazz piano.