I have lived in Phoenix since 1978 when I moved from Vienna, Austria. Born in Austria, I grew up in Manchester, close to rain and the northern English industrial zone. In my early 20s I went to live in Vienna and from there enjoyed many trips around Europe, often as an artist working in watercolor. My poems have appeared in Slipstream, Skidrow Penthouse, and Poem, among others, and my Selected Poems appeared in 2014 from FutureCycle Press. http://www.davidchorlton.mysite.com
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The Way to the Stage
 

Stairs lead down from the parking lot
door to a corridor with bureaucratic grey walls
where a voice becomes an echo
 
flying like a bat unable to escape.
The concrete floor
 
is primed for workmen’s boots, not
the polished shoes musicians
wear, and their suits shine
as black does
 
where all the light has soaked into the paint.
Thoughts go back into the mind here.
 
And suddenly
                        a glare pushes open a door
and a thousand pairs of hands
turn into flapping wings as applause
 
breaks out and sparrows at rest
turn into orioles
in flight.
 

 


The Devil’s Sonata
 

A stirring in the universe
suggests a theme. Cicadas have rosined their torsos
and keep all the world awake
 
except for a violinist
who dreams in sound. He lies
on a mattress stuffed with melodies
 
beside an unfinished letter to a friend
for whom the stars
are nails that hold the sky together,
 
yet something loosens
in the woven darkness. A melody
comes through the open window as gently
 
as a thief, and flows through the room
accessible only
to the dreamer, who luxuriates
 
in phrasing that sparkles in his mind
but turns to dust
when he wakes. He knows someone was here
 
playing with long fingers                                                                 
on an instrument with light for strings,
and as virtuosity comes without practice to the Devil,
 
the signature is obvious. Now the work begins:
claiming his music
by writing notes in mortal time.
 



 
A Musical Afternoon

​
A crown of thorns hangs by the door
of our hosts’ spacious home
and a black old Bible rests
on the table next to programs
for an afternoon of Brahms and Chopin.
The pictures on the walls
in living room and hallway are
scenes by Thomas Kinkade in which
village windows glow with tranquility.
A poem framed retells
in rhyme what a sand dollar has to say
about Christ, and from here with a glance
back across the foyer
the eye settles on the weapon displayed
on the cabinet top close
to the wedding portrait. I’m trying
to settle down for the soprano
but the cross on the wall makes me feel
like a vampire
and the hunting magazines
fanned beside the Bible
suggest the Lord’s last words
may have had something to do with reloading.