Mr Ayers
Mr Ayers staggers across
The evening news
Unwrapped
Like a bojangles
from his blues
Pictures of things to fly
Tangled in the hair
Like bats
Lips on golden fruits
His finger moves
And from the basoon rise
A string
Of melodies blending
on surprise.
Do not stereotype the sound
Classic Bethoven
On the melting ground
Winged to light
Shutting the shades
Of psychiatric nightmares
Sterile scholarship
Without seed
For what gnaws a man's soul
That beauty is a pursuit
That will not allow
Unfaithfulness
The eyes cannot see
Another form undress
And be true
To the mating of the soul
With the gift
Bare upon the breast
Of supple loveliness.
Strange how many times
We past the treasure
Insignificant
Waiting for the discovery
Of another's eyes
Because we cannot deny self
To walk alone the tossing sea of shivering storm
We more fragile
Than the toxic nerve
Our esteem too sensitive
To recieve
What this man
Looking down
Yet not out lives to give
Now we rinse surprise
And love
The prairie hen
Rising to eagle our eyes
Unmuting the strings
Of human
Brotherliness.
Copyright © L'Nass Shango | Year Posted 2009
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