Christian Kaltwasser, composer
Christian Kaltwasser, composer
Sharing a poem I wrote a few years ago. Imagery of a concert/recital. What do you find striking during a live performance? What do you look at? Hear? Feel?
Pale skin over bones and air, blood pumping organs,
hair and fingernails, a smear of lipstick, eyeglasses,
someone plays flute in a recital.
Sounds appear, new music.
Virtually a virtuosic bird and teakettle serenade this
They like to play.
They catch a breath.
Copyright © 2019, Christian T. Kaltwasser.
In honor of World Poetry Day 2019, a poem I wrote:
This is where I wrote my poem,
this craggy, jagged sidewalk:
brown and gray with pebbled,
oil-soaked patches, and near the yellow-painted curb,
whose rotted cigarette stumps and
empty soda cans are
left for birds who sing and chirp
in the friendly treetops.
A stop sign presents red octagonality
near a woman. She walks and turns, looking
at house numbers, then finds her car and leaves.
Nonetheless, thin, silken wisps and bright sky above
hang gilded by the almost-spring sun,
this Sunday evening, shortly ’til seven.
Streetlamps lack their illumination.
Themselves ashen, they cast slender shadows.
Gangly green weeds sprung from recent rains
crack the blacktop’s edge, each an
image of the imperturbable.
An engine starts.
A bird answers.
A green car rounds the sigiled street corner.
As one arrives, someone else leaves.
Copyright © 2015, Christian T. Kaltwasser.
It may seem an odd time to be sharing a poem about flowers, but this poem I wrote this summer came to mind recently so I decided to share it. I hope you may find it interesting.
Pink, round roses in the morning’s summer sun
rival hydrangeas for ornament,
but stand unrivaled for scent.
A sweet feminine redolence,
it brings to mind mothers and girls,
antique tight buds
on china plates,
weddings, romances, the notions of love
and simple times, a reverie.
I made a plastic rose
stitched green yarn through a styrofoam platter,
glued egg carton petals on,
and perfected the illusion with a
spray of air freshener from the bathroom.
I remember years of summers and many roses,
given roses, held roses,
dried and displayed to commemorate
a cherished loved one.
Always they were given and shared in this
purpose of affirmation, the pink ones
and the reddest ones.
Summers and roses last an earnest few weeks.
When cared for and enjoyed,
their meaning and experience may endure a lifetime.
Copyright © 2017, Christian T. Kaltwasser.
Thought I’d share a poem I wrote this morning, especially since I haven’t posted here for a while!
Fall Morning Walk
Late summer roses, pink and red,
layer the air with sweetness,
as curled brown leaves crunch under boot.
The late morning sky has cleared of clouds, so
shadows angle amidst the grasses, glistening
green under leftover morning dew.
The dark-pined hills wear a veil of gray-blue smoke,
while yellowing tree leaves dangle above the path.
Complex aromas commingle: rotting apples
and rain-touched soil.
Footsteps echo crisply. A dog barks.
Two or three birds chirp to nearby ears.
The bright flag stands flat, draped down the tall pole
amidst the calm morning air.