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Posts Tagged ‘song’

 

            for all the busy people

 

 

that’s when I hope you remember

the skylark, not so much the bird,

though that, too—how it sings

even while being chased by hunters,

though it increases its chances

of being caught.

 

But more, I hope you will think

of Johnny Mercer who struggled

a year to write the words

to the tune by Hoagy Carmichael.

By the time he finished Skylark,

Carmichael had forgotten

all about the song.

Sometimes, it takes a long,

long time before the words

come out right. Sometimes,

the moment just isn’t ripe. Sometimes

there’s just too much to do.

 

But perhaps amidst the meetings

and the plans, a snatch of song

will come to you, something

that won’t be ignored.

Perhaps between the papers

and the rush, you will feel it,

winging. Perhaps, as you fly off

toward the always what’s next,

you won’t stop yourself

from singing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A piano is just

some wood and strings

until it’s touched—

and then it sings.

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trickle in the desert—

it takes so little water

to make a song

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Letting the Small Ache Sing

 

 

 

Not yet dirt,

the outline

of squirrel is still visible

on the hard earth

of the back road—

I step over what remains,

wonder

how many other lives

I’m walking on.

There are infinite ways

to praise,

among them

these words:

I am sorry.

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Two, If You Let Me

in the forest of you

I will find the empty branches,

become a song bird

*

don’t get me wrong—

I, too, love silence,

shall we speak it together?

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After a Difficult Day

Because my heart is aching,

I clean the stove. It’s covered

in dark brown stains, stains

so burned on they seem

to be part of the stainless steel.

Because I am practical, I wear

plastic gloves while I scour.

I know that the cleaner

would ripple my fingers and dry

my skin for days. And because

I would rather not cry right now,

I turn on my music and play

Joni Mitchell as loud as the speakers

will play. She always knows

just what to say. There are some

places now where the stovetop gleams

so silver it looks nearly new. There

are some stains I know, that no matter

how many hours I scrub,

they will never leave.

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I thread song through night—

silence follows each note,

unstitches every one

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