three views of a jellyfish


I think, perhaps, I’ll write a poem an undiscovered story tonight
While I sit, eyes closed, listening to the music of classical guitar
Hard church pews, though near the sacred altar, still numb my butt
Yet listen, the music, oh the music, convinces me I do, not care

On a simple Saturday, though full of art and talks on wolves
We finish our cultural repast at a church where classical guitars
Perform, transform us, create us, mesmerized by flying fingers
Music, a purity of sound, soul, intent, presentation and reception

Who, I wonder, imagined that the lute should become a guitar
Did their peers or strangers roll their eyes, think it sounded odd
Did they hear a discordant dissonance, an assault upon their ears
Blame the young, as always, always, forever reinventing the world

Or did they hear the universal spirit, in the sound, of the sound
Lilting notes, chords which create vast new worlds behind your eyes
Or, mayhap, did they hear only the dreaded dark destroyer, death
Harshly shattering their truth, occulting their vision, their very lives

Can we know how these practiced hands ever tell such wondrous tales
Paint such transcendent, magical pictures with strings, wood and ivory
They are midwife to the composer’s labor, giving birth to beauty, awe
An ancient spirit child who comes dancing into our world, our heart

When we allow music, art, words ideas to open us to thought, feeling
Supply we may sway, bend, move sensuously and rejoice, alive, aware
In time to come, unknown, the season of our late sojourn will we adapt
Or will we only stand and blankly stare, ossify and crumble into dust

What names, songs, memories, portents will stain our lips, our glass
Bright lipstick trace left behind will become just a subtle fading track
Which we follow doggedly through the wild woods of a unknown land
Beaten, exhausted, hungry, we reach a never seen vista, know we’re home


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