Jerry, my friend,
you've
done it again,
even
in your silence
the
familar pressure
comes
to bear, demanding
I pull
words from the air
with
only this morning
and
part of the afternoon
to
compose an ode worthy
of
one so particular
about
every turn of a phrase,
demanding
it hit home
in
a thousand ways
before
making it his own,
and
this I can't do alone.
Now
that the singer is gone,
where
shall I go for the song?
Without
your melody and taste
to
lend an attitude of grace
a lyric
is an orphan thing,
a hive
with neither honey's taste
nor
power to truely sting.
What
choice have I but to dare and
call
your muse who thought to rest
out
of the thin blue air,
that
out of the field of shared time,
a line
or two might chance to shine ~
As ever
when we called,
in
hope if not in words,
the
muse descends.
How
shall she desert us now?
Scars
of battle on her brow,
bedraggled
feathers on her wings,
and
yet she sings, she sings!
May
she bear thee to thy rest,
the
ancient bower of flowers
beyond
the solitude of days,
the
tyranny of hours ~
the
wreath of shining laurel lie
upon
your shaggy head,
bestowing
power to play the lyre
to
legions of the dead.
If some
part of that music
is
heard in the deepest dream,
or
on some breeze of Summer
a snatch
of golden theme,
we'll
know you live inside us
with
love that never parts
our
good old Jack O' Diamonds
become
the King of Hearts.
I feel
your silent laughter
at
sentiments so bold
that
dare to step across the line
to
tell what must be told,
so
I'll just say I love you
which
I never said before
and
let it go at that old friend,
to
the rest you may ignore. |
