Poem #172
Seasons always come and go, but every spring leaf’s nightmare is falling.
-Herf Yamaya ©
Meshell Ndegeocello- Lilliquoi Moon
MeShell Ndegeocello was first introduced to me as a bassist while I was coming up on the instrument. I was blown away by her technical prowess. Her hard funk was something I immediately latched onto. It’s a style unique to itself. I spent hundreds of hours playing her basslines in a time when I’d do the same with artists like Jamiroquai, Soulive, and Tye Tribbett. But the days of 10 hour shed sessions lead me to sanity-trying frustration, and finally acceptance that I am not Ray Brown. As that time of life passed, so too did the affecting power of the usual funk-fusion/neo-soul suspects on my heart. Yet MeShell remains and always will.
MeShell remains because of a common thread she shares with my foundational musical loves: an expression of rage, pain, and love like bands such as Nirvana or Counting Crows.
Lyrics add a direct and personal message to songs, even if they are vague and limitless. When a lyric is matched perfectly with coordinated sounds, the affect is paralyzing to the soul. I could have easily written this about Nirvana’s “You Know You’re Right”, The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside”, or “Trouble” by The Jayhawks had MeShell Ndegeocello’s “Liliquoi Moon” not fit so well right now.
Something about the story wrapped in slow 6/8 keeps me trapped in a moment of reflective melancholy. Despite being a focal point of the verse lyric, the parental divide of her youth is not the message, but instead a catalyst for what is truly the song’s point. Celestial swells give hint to the apparent dream while a low, pedaled bass keeps her grounded. As the story persists, the polyrhythmic harmonies build towards a yearning escape to the heavens. A look back before the final leap forward: a deathly silence leads to an explosion of sound. Whaling guitar clash with bass and drum unfolding a raging rise to freedom. “Liliquoi Moon” is the explosion of a screaming soul out of the chest cavity of a no-longer life-filled corpse; the mass of matter left behind, a proxy to promote the paradox of calling life reality.
“Death will come fast. I want to be free, and closer to the sky. Love grows cold, lonely and tired. On the wings of angels, I want to fly”
-Herf Yamaya©
Spelunking Spider
In the shower, I begin to shampoo and suddenly encounter a Spelunking Spider… Struck by his daring, I watch his pendulum swing to and fro; cable and harness, fidelis companions, enduring the violent rush of waters. Bearing towards a doom unknown, surely Spelunking Spider, catching a truthful wave, flees what seemed a promising home during the drought. Ah, but nature’s cycle rears, and here and now, determined to live, Spelunking Spider casts his fate to the fickle wind of a dastardly decline… Spill of rapids, no harbor below, Spelunking Spider acts and trusts, as life does end, “not this day.” Nothing short of a miracle can save Spelunking Spider now, yet still deeper he dives…
I grab his thread, open the shower, and place him on the floor.
“Already saved one life today.”
-Herf Yamaya ©
Boy with the Book
A disheveled boy in dark clothes sits on the Redline in the late afternoon on a blustery, yet sunny spring day. He sits in a seat just next to the door. Bell tolls and wheels turn…
Across from him facing his entrance, a middle-aged women’s eyes dart to the nearest advertisement, avoiding the obviousness of her cautious stare. Stop after stop, an anxious emptiness screams from the hard blue, felt-like cloth to his right; bastardized by standing passengers who just won’t take that chance. Could he be dangerous? Is he ill? Is he on drugs? (at the moment, no)… and the adjacent scanner continues her audit with discretion.
The bounce of the tracks completes the boy’s usual mental courtesy flush goodbye morning madness. He reaches into his bag… He reaches, and the scanner’s curious eyes don’t widen, but they intensify from within. White suit pants stick to the skin. What might he do? Nervous trick. Don’t breathe! Your fucking time of reckoning has come bitch! Put your lips on my barrel and eat bullet.
He reaches into his bag and takes out a red and gold, hardbound book.
This disheveled boy in dark clothes sits on the Redline in the late afternoon on a blustery, yet sunny spring day, reading a book. Train stops and passengers rush in, quick to fill every seat. Mitigate mind! Freedom of foot! Homeward bound you wanting wanderers…
…The boy with the book is more dangerous
-Herf Yamaya ©
Hands
You stand
Like great mourning hands
Outstretched to the heavens
Beneath, and further down
You long to climb
And climb you have
But burdened so that fingers cross
‘Til blind with breath
They point in scattered rays
Each creaking knob
A joint of ages
Leans forth in restless love
From hallowed dirt and serpent’s tongue
To grace the face of God
-Herf Yamaya©
