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The Long March
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(the great drought) the song was old.
tired re-procussives of an arm weary beat
dragging its feet
between its legs the meter scraping down the street-
i never believed to be in time or even in tune
just waiting for June
like a piano man who knows the song by heart waits!
for the page to be turned an action that's learned that's comatose from marching in place: the band's left.
i was... playing a little slowly.
maybe singing a little... lowly
the song was old.
still played by a baby boy in baton blue
not taking his cue
brushing the hair from his eyes to find his hand held by you
and a waltz of the song into 3/4 time!
the words beginning to rhyme
still a clumsy 3/4 of a person singing harmony at last
off key- i'm still trying to understand
the melodies that play on the skin of your hand
that drip from your pores and crescendo in the morning so loud that sleep can't keep time, so i've got to awake
...ignore the mistake
blossom for sound, for the music we make
hey darlin'. i'm bloody shaking in my boots with excitement that you've been writing again. praise heyzeus!
i was... playing a little slowly.
maybe singing a little... lowly
is it just me, or can you hear tim curry's voice staggering out those lines?
i dug this one, the rhyming was quite perfect without holding up the poem. kudos and all that jazz. write on, brothaman.