"Swingtime, by Steve Underwood"
She stands on the edge...
You hear me? The very edge.
Face flawless even with faults
Body bodacious despite the wear
Her presence greater in her absence
and it gives grown men pause
Her face fierce and cast in blue green
aquamarines
it catches gold flecks from of light from the hem of her dress
yes
the screams are well earned
Still
regal
never a diva--
but a diamond
She's had too much
to drink, to eat, to spend, to worry about,
and too many men
that have not been worthy,
but accepted
and yet
no man can touch her
No matter how little slumber
she's had
what she has in her purse
or how many tears she cries
Her mouth is mother earth
She sings words we can't speak
the rise of her voice riptide that tears
the little slip of our souls
The voice
reaches from river bed to right of way
sockin' it to us
uprooting our sorry selves
working us like the one trick ponies we are
Cauze she's
sobbing and sangin' - this superstar
In blue notes she connotes
rivers of red hot honesty
that flow into our dry plains
brutally pushing us to move
out the way of us
the fury of her pain
scortches
the moment
making us honest
for a change
Our hearts
emerge
tattered and worn;
and then-- up
from
tilled and blackened
places
a lovely shade
of blue green
bewildered
befuddled
and
besmirched
No comments:
Post a Comment