The Mini Troubadoura

Lo! Lovely lusty peach
Russet jewel, round and full
You draw my eyes
That have long been fixed
To the ground with heavy heart
Wake me up

Oh I awake to joy
I, who was bound to shadows
by silver tendrils
by whispers
by fog

But now I see the harvest moon
That I recall from youth
and my heart quickens
Oh, awake my glee, my joy

I had given you to phantoms
and received my pay, my due
and now you pull me to the stars
You blood-red harvest moon







Mini Troubadoua 2018

Misplaced Melodies
I cannot place my finger upon it That tune that has plagued me, And that is what drives me mad Trying to recall a forgotten song Trying to forget a mistaken melody
Cupping my hand to my ear To catch the stars singing Straining my eyes, To see what purple the moon makes When it kisses the edge of a cloud
And it aches my heart, So, I catch my breath, And I double back, Then I surge ahead
All for naught, For I know how the song will end though I have yet to play it through
My eyes, on a sky I cannot

Smoke Screen Illusion
Stay with me..this will come around to a point, I promise. It is a journey that I hope will illustrate the need to move from suspicion and fear (which fulfills a political agenda on both sides of the table) to the deep appreciation of another culture's music and poetry. Here we go, but before we do...a tasty snack of my current favorite Spanish language Jazz artist.....

This is currently my favorite song. Camila Meza is amazing. She sings in Spanish also. She scats AND PLAYS what she scats at the same time. I can't even chew gum and play the cello at the same time...

Lack of Resources As a child, I was raised in southern California. The school I went to had 1 white girl and 2 black, my sister and me. We were called caca and little caca, our brown skin resembling poop. I spoke fluent Spanish within the context of play (pujame!). I recall my math book being in Spanish, saying the pledge of allegiance in Spanish and having to read English in the corner becau…

Criticism and Growth I feel Ella is one of the classiest, talented women in the world. Her voice is sheer perfection. It just is. Clear, eloquent and playful when desired and soulful when desired. By throwing myself into her body of work, I got to read and hear about her journey. She was a street kid. She danced and sang on the street corner. When she auditioned for Chick Webb, they said no, she was fat and she stank...she was to black and to ugly (they were looking for a pretty rival for Billie Holiday). She could hear them. She auditioned anyway with her head held high. Her diction, tone, pitch....PERFECT. 


She did not allow criticism to keep her from growing, she used it as a vehicle for growth. They dressed her, got her hair done. Let her sleep at the club and shower. She did not leave butthurt and empty-handed. She left being the FIRST LADY OF SWING (she got to pick her music from the standards coming out before anyone else including Billie Holiday). The black community made fun …

At night, when my wings are laid to rest And my love and I prepare for the little death, (The one that has hope of morning light on soft brown skin), I chatter like a child and place my head upon his chest
And there is joy and expectation, for one day We will be planted in the earth like seeds Our bodies laid side by side he and I In the land his ancestors plowed Proudly put an X on the deed (Pride of ownership far outweighing the shame of illiteracy),
My love and I will wait, we, Will wake to true light Every tear, every tear Ever shed, consoled Truth and light Maranatha


Copyright 2018

I had a dream I found a letter With mad scribbling on the page Etched with heartfelt sentiments, in an alphabet unknown to me.
It arrived in my pocket at a time most inconvenient but I pulled it out none the less The writer, dead and gone
I had no surprise it arrived there,  I watched the letters vanish off the page. I saw it with my own eyes, the paper vanished too. Empirical proof in mind, no words, no paper, no writer: I searched Frantically (I add with a slight head tilt of shame) I searched for the phantom words in thin air. Searched my pocket for the vanished page.



Theminitroubadoura Copyright 2018