Monday, February 24, 2014


Strains of Stevie Wonder have echoed in my head
One of his Songs in the Key of Life
These past few days

I often think on the music of the 1970s
It is the music my mother played and sang
And I still turn to it for comfort

I have not the skills of that blind Motown man
My voice will not raise seraphic
My fingers work on different keyboards entirely

Still, it would be good to sing
Instead of shouting from the rooftops
As I have it to do

It would be good to sing
For the events of recent days have been as worth song
As any bard-craft's matter

Instead, I write
Inking onto the pages such records of events
As I have seen and can scribble down

I do not assume my words will have such force
To stay in the mind as the blind man's songs
But they need writing, regardless

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