Every now and again, then yet again, science floats up
out of her silence. Parallel Universes, she whispers, or
String Theory, Uncertainty Theory or Newton’s Laws of Motion.
Some poets, painters, and dancers and drummers look up
from what they’ve been doing to tune in. Tell me about it,
they sometimes think, but, knowing, don’t say a thing.
To know or not to know – this is the kiss, the lick to cherish
and woodshed for the moment light shines on all we know.

– Al Young
© 2009

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Manhattan Skyline 2008 |  Photo: Al Young

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“Rhythm is the prime element of music – music is life.”
—Omar Clay

© BayTaper.com

In memory of Omar Clay
(1935-2008)

We met when it was spring, before the heat
of life moved in. We met before blue summer
got us up running, racing to some beat
we couldn’t count on or off. You peeped it, Omar.

You showed up everyplace I turned — New York,
The Showcase, Mingus, Oakland, midnights, dawn.
You and Bob James: a silver spoon and fork
to match the knife-shy hush of Sarah Vaughan.

You aired the groove. Yes, you, Omar, you drew
all space between the beat into your lungs
in micro-breaths. All tempo burned in you.
“Omar,” it cried, “hear how my silence sings!”

We’ll meet again, I know. You loved to teach.
You’ll show me rhythm time can never touch.

– Al Young
© 2009 by Al Young

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Photo: Barbara Chew, 1998

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” — Drummer Omar Clay, who died in December, was remembered at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music last week, where 38 musicians performed, California poet laureate Al Young recalled their days as classmates at the University of Michigan, and the cake, made by Sugar Butter Flour in Sunnyvale, was shaped like drums and cymbals.”
– Leah Garchik,
San Francisco Chronicle, 19/20 January 2009

Erik Yates (Hot Buttered Rum bandleader) pays tribute to the man who taught him music at Tamalpais High School

Carolina Daybreak
© Vivian Torrence

Dawn, you miserable slow-cooker
of goat meat, why do you park
yourself at my window to snooker

me into imagining the smoky night
will never come again? Sometimes
when you turn up so impeccably

disguised as a new day with wines
of forgetfulness, I respectfully
give in. Life clouds the very trail

life spins: a spidering website.
How long can we put truth in jail?
How long can politicians stab

biology and physics in the heart
and gut the world before there is
no world left? Where profit ignites,

where dividends burn up, lives go out.

Al Young

© 2009 by Al Young

   © Al Young 

One fading afternoon, when autumn whispered
but summer wouldn’t let go, you broke your nagging promise.
You telephoned to tell me twice how much you’d loved
the time we’d gone to sea together. On turns my mobile
couldn’t handle, I lost your voice. Perhaps I made this up,
perhaps I lie. As daylight slipped from me, as five o’clock turned
six, twilight bloomed. I pressed one ear kiss-close against my cell.
Listening hard, I heard each half-word sprout and thread its root.

Al Young

© 2008 Al Young

Edna Froehlich
December 23, 1914-October 23, 2008,
beloved neighbor and landlord

“You’ve got too many zippers,” she told me,
observing my bag search to find a pen
when it came time to sign. Edna could see
and did see everything. She smiled, and then
she handed me her pen. I drew my breath.

Respect for others? Edna wrote the book
down to the last detail, from births to death;
she kept things straight. With just one look
she sized you up, then let her heart take charge.

For Edna fair was fair, and wrong was wrong.
A stopped-up sink, a roof – nothing too large
or small for her to fix. She took the long
approach, the route that worked. She loved her A’s,
her Chardonnay, her progeny. Sing praise.

Al Young

© 2008 Al Young