I set forth to write a song for you
Something that would see you through; keep faith afoot and perseverance in your lungs
…and when you’d exhale during the difficult part of your journey
Your labored breath would sound like hope
I dug deep … to the natural rhythm of my feet, and the sway in my hip
I looked for song in the nod of my head and the purse of my lips
Lyrics licked / like envelopes
I had hoped
To recount my own downward slopes and find the fuel
Necessary to compose your song …
but I’ve been singing too long.
hymnals … spirituals … and heart break anthems;
A triathlon of songs - pantin’
“I will survive” and “lord I’m coming ” –
the repetitive humming Creates a familiar buzz
no more noticeable than the whiiiiirrrrrrr of our computers. Whereas; once
Could inspire nations to part seas, virgins to part knees, and the suffocated to breathe
But if you have been singing for survival every mile of the way
The melody starts to lose its taste
The over chewed cud – of we shall over come … begins to wear away at the tongue
So many songs of survival
That my recant would nothing more than minimize your trial
My off key out of tune / is no redemption song for your doom
I started to feel that singing you lovely lullabies
Was a far cry / from what you needed.
Composer defeated …
I whispered to myself “retreat” …
and somehow found no shame in it.
* * *
Once upon a time we were soldiers
And we were sold this
Idea that retreat was delayed defeat – and that rest was for the wicked – and a moment to cease…
Was only afforded to the weak.
Speak nothing wars and worlds of warriors and “rest” … in the same breath
Slave masters and over lords spun such webs … and we
We tricked our souls with songs of salvation
In order to fulfill unreal expectations.
"No retreat, No surrender" and we coined it Kamikaze
they had us KILL ourselves ... then convinced us it was honor ...
gentile ... Jew
the disenfranchised, and every under privileged child too
We were taught to pull thru
thriving ...surviving our struggle with the only sound of our song
but before we happily sing along
regarding the tyranny of the oppressed
in the game of chess
it is solely the pawn which is required to continually press
There are no symphonies here.
No chorus that would trick the ear … or harmony to harp the heart.
Notes as sharp as spears, fallacy of falsetto
Tenor of thy tears, allow your vibrato to settle
And silence your song.
and I will sing along holding the chorus while you breathe between the notes
The exhale will still
Sound like hope.