His Teenage Octave
Stepping back from the edge of a street-light pool,
his lines of preludes
are gang glyphs on a wall
near his station as he whistles at night traffic.
With street-wise finesse, he un-sleeves a flick of his right hand,
lighter palm catching light, signaling a brother spotter
hid behind half-open drapes or twilight.
Then he long-eyes my stance,
my parked, empty, idling, bus w/2-way radio,
the quick cig flares
within my smoke cloud while I stay,
stay between sidewalk
Satisfied that his warning is heeded,
he watches for cops and customers.
He whistles his teenage octave at slow-rolling cars,
a toned magnet inviting headlights to bend
towards a white-lined,
His eulogy hangs as a dialect
pleated into the armsof his dark coat.
Men of Dust, Men of Dusk
Held by habitual love, men of dusk
raise oak batons into deft subito,
the blue notes of jazz sax and trumpet
rising above brick, asphalt and pulse.
Men of dust raise oak batons into deft subito,
conducting current swirl as a seeled falcon
climbs, rounding on columns of heat and sweat.
Homing in on the blue notes of flute and trumpet,
men of dusk grasp at sedge beside the current
as men of dust raise oak batons, sensing
pain in the serrated glaze of stars.
Hawk cry wedding city jazz, held by
habitual love, men of dusk, men of dust
dance and stride through the convoluted air,
raising oak batons into deft subito, breath of cougar,
blood of bighorn, bones of whale, sight of osprey,
flesh within flesh. These lovers of twilight lean
into its liquid flutter, discovering new pain,
sweet pain, in the serrated glaze of stars.
Hawk cry wedding city jazz, men of dust,
men of dusk homing in on blue notes, true eyes
opening in songs of love, anointing the new wings
arriving laden. Oak branched surprises of clarity crest
beside the current as a large falcon wheels and dips
into our dark blue sky, thousands turn at the peal
of its cry. Edging down into green, these lovers
of twilight lean through the birdsong swept air.
Men of dust, men of dusk raise oak batons
into deft subito. Blue notes rising from dry benches,
rising into a liquid flutter, current pulling
marrow as the ragged heel into their waltz
of hungers, hawk cry wedding city jazz.
Born and raised in Charleston, S.C., moved to Chicago, educated at red-bricked universities and on city streets, Charles F. Thielman has enjoyed working as a truck driver, city bus driver and enthused bookstore clerk. Married on a Kauai beach in 2011, a loving Grandfather for five free spirits, now living much closer to them, Charles' work as Poet, Artist and shareholder in an independent Bookstore’s collective continues!
And not a few of his other poems have been accepted by literary
— journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
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