Though I am on a break from blogging to give my one-handed typing a rest (following a surgery on my left hand), I have to post this poem.
I interviewed a musician for a features article for my day job at a Colorado newspaper and a couple days later was in a local coffee shop eavesdropping on an impromptu jam session. Nine friends played guitars, a mandolin and a ukulele and the music got into my fingers, causing me to feel out a poem.
Here it is:
The making of stars
The warrior poem came in on the beat of the drums
all of it colliding like butterfly wings
a ripple of air through my heart
I hear it, I hear it
let the voices
let all of them come
the rising star on the stage of a field and
the other smaller stars in a coffee
let it come
where is the music
I hear it call
me out of my skin, magical arising
can I reach the sky
what are fingers on a guitar
and the wings of the butterfly
but ways to—
touch blue into the falling
of loving night and day.
Stars are out all the time.
Hey, hey stars just don’t belong
to the sky.