Tonight a poem in celebration of music. Because I have Rolling Stones tickets (BOSTON BABY!). Because my daughter plays violin. Because where words fail, music speaks. Because the music I listen to will tell you more about me than my mouth ever could. Because to stop the flow of music would be like the stopping of time itself, incredible and inconceivable. (That last there isn't me - it's Aaron Copland.)
She cried for all the broken hearts,
Painted everlasting winters -
Floral patterns etched in ice;
A frozen tear to
Soften up the bastard bones.
Bow made love to needy string
In cooing fling - wanton whispers
Fondled under pianissimos,
Caressing callous hearts.
Melodrama swayed in satin sound -
Yet the player wasn't there,
Only creamy song - soothing, yearning,
Teasing bitter minds.
I sensed her persevering loneliness
For beauty of an evening,
Romance of a tune - laughing,
Sobbing at the fire.
Then a climax -
Writhing passion cutting deep -
Wounding macho flesh;
And all in a work of musical art:
Ephemeral stories, yarned of music
Honed impossibly through her tones.