Poetry in Motion

I write poetry. I know you find that hard to believe....not! But I have written it for years. I began writing it when I was eight; the year my brother died.  I needed some kind of outlet and poetry gave me just that.  It was a place I could release all the feelings, fears, anger, hurt and pain.  Music became my other outlet. I need music just like I need air to breathe. It is life blood for me. My grandfather was the starting source of my music. He took time with all of us when we were young and taught us all to play guitar if we wanted to learn. I was one of his students. When he died my grandmother gave me his mandolin.  It was a humped back one called a "tater bug" and it had suffered a lot of use and misuse.  There are missing inlays and it has a crack or two in the back....but I love it.  Several years later I penned this poem.

The Mandolin

Round back bent and broken

from years of nightly use

inlays missing, dusty,

rusty from neglect and abuse.

Strings that are still and silent,

out of tune, played no more.

Once a master stroked you,

coerced the sound to soar.

The songs that lie encased,

inside your wooden heart.

These songs were my beginning,

where I got my musical start.

My grandfather once held you,

just like he once held me.

And when he touched our heart strings,

set both out spirits free.

When I hold you now I know,

that I am gree to know,

where eagles fly, where steel wheels turn,

where'er I want to go.

Thank you Grandpa for this gift,

your favorite mandolin.

I'll use it - while I'm here -

and then pass it on again!

This poem and mandolin sparked another flame of musical symbolism in my soul and I began thinking about myself. The writer, the musician, the singer...and found myself asking...

Body Music

Who are you?

Where is the face I looked at yesterday....or was that last year?

God! This is so depressing.

I still feel young....yet, I am seeing my mother

in this mirror more and more.

My hands are short and stocky,

remnants of my Creek Indian Heritage.

These hands were made to work hard and the

calloused fingers are testimonials

that they have.

My eyes see into your soul.

I want to know you and I usually do...

many times on a plane higher than you are

even aware of.

My eyes are the windows to my very being.

They tell you when I 'm sick, tired, distressed,

or even....lying!

My eyes have never learned to keep secrets.

My mouth is not too big, so I don't

shoot it off without provocation.

It is not so small either.

I will strike up a conversation with anyone.

I like people.

Strangers are just people I haven't met yet.

My ears are large enough to listen when

my friends need a friend, yet

small enough to easily shut out

thinks I don't want to hear

at the most convenient times.

My body, once looked like a sleek, classical guitar

before the days of children and marriage.

Now I see a bass violin - curved, but

definitely thicker.

All in all I like me.

We can't all be classical guitars.

The worlds orchestration needs a mixture

of musical types.

I am a bass fiddle, at this time in my life...

so close your eyes and hear my music.

As I leave you with my poetic offerings today I give you this mock Irish blessing.  May your music today be soothing. May you share your song with all those you come in contact with...and no matter what instrument you play....may you know that you are part of a great earthly band called the human race.  God Bless you and yours today.