Think of it like this:
We stand in line, waiting our turn
with Destiny,
always more or less aware
that even Mr Nobody
enjoys a flash, before checking out:
That life was mine.
Some lift off
like Fred Astaire
doing a Peter Max rainbow;
a few burn like meteors,
never reaching the earth;
Mozart fiddled
in billions of brains.
Meanwhile we advance;
fate a sculptor who chips a little here,
a little there,
until gradually we appear
or should I say I appear
in case you don’t agree with we,
from the void.
But to get down to now:
inside the translucent door
voices of thirsty men and women
ride the arpeggios of the harp
like so many hives of bees
on the wind,
flap their chins
like donkeys,
braying bravely in the face of it all
while the guitarist’s fingers fly
loose like a wing
playing songs all know by heart:
I am, I am
You are, you are
He is, they are,
I was, you will,
he did, she will never,
I know, you know, we know,
forgive,
forget…
To the swirl of egos in the room
we add our two:
the guitarist does not know
all the chords.
All quit their jabber, though swiftly
our inert mood is grasped
the hives buzz again.
What fools they think we are
to sit and stare,
our laughter the last resort of silence,
while we contemplate the truth:
all alone, we orbit – the moon shining,
the sun waiting below the earth,
the sea sighing,
the wind crying to come in
and we sing:
I love, we love,
and then of course
they love.
Harp and guitar, the wood sings:
O how we yearn
for the instant order
of song.

Málaga 1991

From Patrick’s collection called poems.odt. While I know it’s from 1991, I assigned it an arbitrary posting date within that year.

Patrick

Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.