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Latin Jazz ~NEW!
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Poetry and Writing
Copyright © 2007 Chase Morin
All Rights Reserved
I Am
By Chase Morrin, 2007
Let them be vanilla iced chords in perfect tune
Plain, non-original progressions always heard and adored
They'll be bland, simple, and regular like a major seventh
Without any risk of a detachment from the freeway of melodies
I'd rather be dissonant though
I'd rather be the biting, ugly flat fifth
The risky sharp seventh
The gruesome minor second
I'd rather be the swinging melodics than the perfect fifths
Indeed, I would be the bite, the ugly, the risky, the new
Hated, shunned, but watched
Seen as the flavor, the spice, the sorrow
In fact, all of the perfect intervals would come to understand:
I alone made things different to a world full of major and minor
I alone was the rich, charming buzz of dissonant texture
But for now, I'd rather be just the ugly melodics and the striking pitch
Not the vanilla, perfectly trimmed, intervals
No, not the dominant sevenths
Not the perfect fourths
Not the authentic cadences
But the ugly, dissonant, chromatics.
Ode to my Fingers
By Chase Morrin, 2007
Oh, thank you! My blessed fingers!
Pink tootsie pops of mine,
My wiggly, twiggly fingers,
For being so divine.
You all obey my every order,
And help me work a lot.
In fact, you've never left me,
From the hands that I have got.
You all work as I do,
To do the very best,
Yet, you continue,
Even when I need a rest.
You really are my pals
About you I rave and rave.
I'll even let you lie with me,
When I'm dead and in my grave.
You dance among my piano,
And you spin my work and chores.
You have a personality,
That never ever bores.
Oh my lovely fingers!
Without you, I'd be dead twice.
You wiggle and you twiggle
Like the tails of little mice.
But, Oh wonderful fingers,
I have but one request
Can you get an "A" for me,
On my very next test
Would the Sun Rise?
By Chase Morrin, 2006
Would the sun rise if it had a chance?
After all, I never asked it to.
Maybe, like dew, it likes procedure,
But, what did I do to help it?
As a sun, I would rise
up.
But what if it just doesn't feel in the mood?
One day, I'll wonder about its righteousness,
And if it really is like a large jewel.
I, it, and he are flowers, timely to blossom.
In repetition we all rise, but what's our option?
Like a bubble floating higher and higher,
I'll rise a trifle but then pop,
And splatter fading rays.
Would the sun rise if it had a chance, break out like thunder?
Maybe I'll ask it to, then I won't.
But I never asked it, not yet, at least.
All it does is mock me and my orderly world.
