the wind is moving sweetly
from a tree here then over there dropping a whisper
here then over there but
not for me like the song of the same name
even so a gentle breeze
touched me to remind me that hope is never lost
only momentarily forgotten
but always within reach of a believing heart and mind
there was a time when I
thought that hope was for everyone else but not for me
as soon as I sat down in my chair on the
patio it started to rain again
I had to wear a light vest and as I lit a late
afternoon cigar I listened to
what seemed to be a host of kettle drums
sitting on the metal roof that would fade
in and out
then it slowed down to the sound of big
drops running off the roof to the worn
grass below that looked like a giant sheet
on a player piano rolling down
now that reminded me of the Steinway
that sat in our living room and
my piano teacher who quit
sometimes kids can’t be forced to be who
their parents wanted to be or want them to be
this can set the stage for a life of failure upon
failure upon failure
to this day I can sing some say as sweetly as
Nancy Wilson but I can’t play a thing
or read music yet there has been a choir or
two here and there
and that nervous but fine solo on Danny Boy
but my folks spent a lifetime discouraging me
from doing anything that I wanted to do
so acting and singing among other things
simply faded away like most of my dreams
much like the rain falling off the roof to
we have the hope of
Jesus’ coming because he has risen indeed
the weather and I are
the morning fog and the afternoon haze
my lifelong facade
seemed to shatter
in my mind
in my heart in my body
and fell away because
of your love for me
all that remains is who
I am and a refreshing gentle breeze of hope
sometimes life is like
a cigar that unravels right before your eyes
greater than faith with
hope is faith without any hope at all at all
made it a hold your breath kind of day still holding
At some point I stopped
listening to music. For me it was someone else’s joy.
Someone else’s story.
Not mine. Abuse of any kind stops the music
of your life.
My LP records sit on a
shelf. I thumb through them from time to time.
I can’t play my music
CDs either. I don’t want to revisit a life of abuse.
Songs stir memories
I rather not have. But I long for the sweet and
joyful interlude that
was written only for me.
[Author’s note: FYI, there is an exception. I have a group of CDs known as my car music, e.g., The Manhattans, Huey Lewis, The Commodores, to name a few, that I listen to on and off. But they stay in the car.]
It is getting colder and
rain clouds are pressing in.
There was one bird singing;
I thought it was for me but
I don’t have a song today.
I long to sing a song I love.
I will sing again but not today.
The bird returned singing a new song:
“When your breasts are full
and your hips are wide, you will laugh and sing.”
I wondered if the bird sang
I’m filling out and
I don’t mean paperwork I protrude in places