Round back bent and broken
from years of nightly use
inlays missing, dusty,
rusty from neglect and abuse.
Strings that are still and silent,
out of tune, played no more.
Once a master stroked you,
coerced the sound to soar.
The songs that lie encased,
inside your wooden heart.
These songs were my beginning,
where I got my musical start.
My grandfather once held you,
just like he once held me.
And when he touched our heart strings,
set both out spirits free.
When I hold you now I know,
that I am gree to know,
where eagles fly, where steel wheels turn,
where'er I want to go.
Thank you Grandpa for this gift,
your favorite mandolin.
I'll use it - while I'm here -
and then pass it on again!
This poem and mandolin sparked another flame of musical symbolism in my soul and I began thinking about myself. The writer, the musician, the singer...and found myself asking....
Who are you?
Where is the face I looked at yesterday....or was that last year?
God! This is so depressing.
I still feel young....yet, I am seeing my mother
in this mirror more and more.
My hands are short and stocky,
remnants of my Creek Indian Heritage.
These hands were made to work hard and the
calloused fingers are testimonials
that they have.
My eyes see into your soul.
I want to know you and I usually do...
many times on a plane higher than you are
even aware of.
My eyes are the windows to my very being.
They tell you when I 'm sick, tired, distressed,
My eyes have never learned to keep secrets.
My mouth is not too big, so I don't
shoot it off without provocation.
It is not so small either.
I will strike up a conversation with anyone.
I like people.
Strangers are just people I haven't met yet.
My ears are large enough to listen when
my friends need a friend, yet
small enough to easily shut out
thinks I don't want to hear
at the most convenient times.
My body, once looked like a sleek, classical guitar
before the days of children and marriage.
Now I see a bass violin - curved, but
All in all I like me.
We can't all be classical guitars.
The worlds orchestration needs a mixture
of musical types.
I am a bass fiddle, at this time in my life...
so close your eyes and hear my music.
May your music today be soothing. May you share your song with all those you come in contact with...and no matter what instrument you play....know that you are part of the great band called the human race. Bless you today!