This rhythm is rolling
rolling around inside my undulating chest
Sitting at this wooden table,
contemplating it not being real
and part of me
and part of you
and I’m not really touching it, it’s touching me.
The music changes, I dream of being a poet.
I dream of being who I am.
I dream of making music unabashedly humble,
grateful to share this gift with the Greats.
To only for a moment think of all those who laid the path before me,
those brave and enduring souls who, pebble by pebble, note by note, stroke by stroke, experience by heartbreakingly joyful, or painful, experience,
They tapped in, not out.
Some through Divine Spirit intervention,
some through straight up booze,
whatever the avenue, whatever the teacher,
it brought about my ancestors of music and word. They walked that road.
Creative muse lingers just outside our reach and we must take heed.
We must cook up that stew
be ready when the salt falls from the shelf to delightfully enrich our slippery, sensuous, slimy, salubrious, sacred soup.
So thank you. Thank you greats. Thank you oldies, thank you newbies, thank you those who have yet to be born.
Thank you for learnin’ me to open up, stand up straight, be connected to the ground, and lift my head and sing – those notes are not mine, they are Ours.