Composer Bob Marsh invited me to submit my realization of his four-page graphic score “window/door/river.” He’s building a project page on Bandcamp for all the submissions. Here are two of the four tracks I created:



Buk and Tommy

Note! Please take a pass on this page if you are offended by “street language.”

A quasi-prose poem in response to the July SLAP monthly challenge to pit two opposites against one another. It can be argued that Buk and Tommy are not opposites, but a play on their stylistic differences was too much fun to pass up. A couple of the stanzas are blatant plagiarizing, and a couple others are re-writes. Yet a few other stanzas are original.

Earth’s Memento

Baseball. Sex. Rock-n-roll.

Paramount in the domain of my pimpled,
awakening contemporaries. Informal, that
baseball. Limited personnel. Non-luxurious,
windblown neighborhood ballyards.

My elusive grounder rolls over the lumpy
outfield, glancing and hopping. Headfirst slide
into home, adding drama to my young life. I
could have loped and knew it.

Caught a mouthful of dirt and grit. Plugs me for
a second. No onlookers; unseen in my glory. No
catcher. No infielders. My own drama,
manufactured. I ran the bases in solitude.

What’s left is the grit. I coughed, dusted myself
off, but that grit; a distinct sensation. Grind my
jaw to extend the exploration; charting course,
with Earth’s memento between my teeth.

There also was a backyard, a lumpy backyard. I
trip and fall and find another wad of dirt. Penny
Moreland, all of nine years but stronger than I,
straddles me, taking pleasure ejecting my plug
of garden dirt.

Dear cowgirl, how different was the drama of
your moment from the drama of my moment at
that moment; without onlookers, as was
preferred. But not in solitude, which was

You too left bits of grit in my mouth, like the
slide into home plate, leaving me with grit to

Was the drama of youth misspent as youth
itself? There was drama in the grit of the
ballyard and the grit of the backyard and like all
early summers, full of unprocessed discoveries.

From where comes drama now? What is to be
discovered? I trust my solitude, my lack of
onlookers, for I have created beauty and drama
alone in the studio of my mind.

–R.A.Falesch, in progress

Read at SLAP meeting of 2012-06-12, in response
to the challenge: “…write of a memory of the
summer we were twelve years old.” Announcing it
to the members as “unfinished” did not elicit
the sought-after sympathy :–)

That ballyard of my youth is still there, but, alas, the backyard where Penny* and I frolicked is not. I visited the ballyard in 2008 and, except for the new drinking fountain and its fancy pedestal, it looked exactly the same as it did when I was twelve. No small consolation, that.

Elmwood School Ballyard

*She was quite real, but the name Penny Moreland is not.

Lost to the Microphone

Lost to the Microphone

–by Bob Falesch

Written in response to SLAP challenge, for the May 2012 meeting, to use a particular formal structure. I chose Double Etheree – form. Etheree is syllable count-based: One syllable  in first line, ending with ten syllables in 10th line. Double Etheree adds the mirror to reverse back down to one syllable on a line. Unrhymed, no particular cadence required. Often centered, but can be right or left justified.

Writer’s Block

     Writer’s Block

       Torment of the manuscript

Must you summon me, dear manuscript,
or would you in benevolence just appear?
You once called, like a siren; but
also like a womb, a place of solace
to which I returned before I became.

I now call you. At the top of my lungs
I call. What haven can I offer?
Do you not settle here, seeking grace elsewhere?
You cherished page, nearly-blank;
end this harsh estrangement.

The struggle: sanctity through ardent toil.
A cleansing, the process to remake oneself
every time. To reinvent, every time.
Do I now withhold my own blood,
which I once so fervently shed?

Shall I fling a ditty upon your blank staves?
Would you harbor an incidental nocturne?
Perhaps a “single-idea” etude (so-called).
Would that dress the still-bleeding
wounds of this gaping decade?

Oh, summon me now, you holiest of blank stares,
for I have a masterpiece waiting.

— Bob Falesch, April 2012 (read at SLAP meeting this date)