Music

The dead, poets of old can make us cry
With only words and moments, of wars
And love and some slice of feeling unique, but just like us,
Genius in its summation of all matter, all time.
I might be a humble writer, puzzle pieces arranged to a picture,
A builder of clever tricks of the light,
Yet, every time I stand in front of heartcries of old firesides,
With some beautiful boy pushing soul up from the guts,
Or wrenching out of some sweet tangle of wood and strings
Something that bubbles up from our maker, and from isolation,
Everything that hurts most in the world
Everything that troubles the mind or sets it aflame

No matter the turn of the pen and paper
Or however I arrange the pieces into imitation of gold
I will always stand, in some happy crowd, humbled
Sick with jealously, and the sharpest longing
To know like they do – and I will stand, moving
In patterns of joyful instinct,
Knowing I will never hold a roomful of strangers
In this controlled, loving chaos,
This compulsion to stomp and beat
The floor with black boots,
This power, some language
That cuts the air
I cannot speak it
---
This is what happened in May '09 when I saw Old Crow Medicine Show front row center. I like the ending. Maybe I can tighten this one? I was never good at purely happy poems, but this one is more jealousy.