All that is Left

 

 

 

Like lost breath in August residue,

I was a dream when conscript leafleteers,

swayed, serene as summer elms.

Soldiers burnt their typecast futures,
while the crowd hummed that harmony

that was both America and not America;
in reverence of Star Sprangled Banner.
Is this footage all that is left of 100,000 faces?
100,000 memories of unwrinkled
flesh and dreams?

Your black curls that hung down your head,

have long since decayed into Hessian earth.

The coffin has splintered, like a ruptured note,

and allowed the earth to sprout

musicians fingers and thumbs, legs and arms.

 

The liturgy of love you sang, like an electric hymn,

died almost as soon as the last amber's

of the festivals were extinguished. 

You'll never sing through six foot turf,

set thick with worms or through a concrete crust.

When you lived you were energy itself,

 almost unbound by matter, you defied

what many thought the physics of music,

your guitar gratified a hunger,

a primal pulsing need.

Reviews

[Donald Meikle]

Peace........Love...........Karma.........Jimi..........Janis...Flowerpower..and that glorious Weed. Some of us are still free. It's nice to know the messengers yet carry the word. Love is all you need.

[W.k.kortas]

Given the legion of words that have been written by those were (or claimed to have been) there, it's interesting to read something from someone whose perspective is one of distance in time and place--especially when it's done with the skill and masterful ear that's the hallmark of your work. A welcome piece from someone whose work has been absent much too long.

[Emily B]

The soundtracks of our lives, just as jimi evokes the Vietnam war era, "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" evokes images of GI's in Europe, and "Rose of Alabama" evokes pictures of southern boys in that North/South conflict. Your words brought a sense of nostalgia for the times. Great write.

[Ken Simm.]

Ah, turning into butterflies. Thinking that a difference would be made. A change was coming and something wonderful. Ah perhaps the happiest times. This was as poignant as flowers in the barrel of a gun at Kent State and as evocative as cheesecloth and muslin. Regards Ken.