Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter

Sunday, October 02, 2005


It doesn't matter if the ink is
black or blue, the purple rose of
a sunset or gray of sky wrapping
itself around a twister.
Doesn't matter if you can read
between the lines...
"funnel cloud?"
because sometimes what matters most
is what you can feel with the weight
of words adding to the cadence of
rythm, an echo of a 12-string playing
both along with and against itself,
all built to a grand scale
from the ground up
the way last night's session
made me want to listen and then
speak with a voice so universal,
one that carries across the board
with nothing of the trivial mine-mind-break
with all things of a personal veritable flow...
that "I-Me-Mine" of me with sensivity only
on my own pulse.

1 comment:

Kendall Messner said...

This is a great one. I love music and poetry and on the rare occasions where the two truly blend- it is magical, it takes you away. I remember my friedn Rob played 12 string and I played harp and sang mostly traditional sometimes made up, on street corners in college for beer money. This brings some of those magical moments back.

Thanks for that.