Best Dulcimers Poems
No Exit
musicians hide behind scarring sounds
beyond madness
beyond folly
beyond Somewhere Everywhere
dance with delirious determination
through fragments of melodious folly
dissonant dulcimers declare
repetitive chords
within punctuated digital drones
repetitive beyond vibration
vibrating beyond repetition
percussive rituals vibrate
beyond inflated vaudevillians
mutating into
mad cacophonous comedic collisions
rituals beyond vibrating cacophony
rituals behind chaotic vibrations
deranged vibraphones
denounce
fragments of repetitive visions
mindful of mindless
Exits
I recite your name in the whispers of the wind
for bonded to my heart are you until the end
I lifted the chalice drank deeply of its wine
I felt of its effects the fullness of divine
Like the chords of piano and dulcimers delight
your melodies do waft through every thought at night
a master plays the chords a violin with strings
plays my heart like a harp whose music on it rings
Your fingers play me like the stroke of piano keys
every touch I enjoy your heart it aims to please
you are a symphony whose chords have touched my heart
a birth cries transmission of transformation every part
Songs like an aria may yet I learn to sing
whose vocals resonate the inmost of my being
You left no line untouched no strand is mine alone
made sure you did I knew would make you me your own
Somewhere I lost myself I gave it all to you
things I don't understand reasons appear askew
I inhale you my breathe to deepest parts within
need you to embrace me as close as your own skin
We retire together speak 'neath the baleful skies
of every trial in life and those who live in lies
greet me in the morning curl around me at night
sing to me of love songs of futures very bright
The wedding of my heart tears away my mind
I want to forever hold you for all of time
Are not your words a bath that removes the worlds dirt
a balm of medicine to heal the deepest hurt
Its surpassing sweetness a palate of good taste
love so intoxicating no drop will go to waste
the adversary's here and tramples the flowers
but you oh my beloved too freely roam my hours
My life is but a breath an instrument of song
music tells the stories of lives and right and wrong
The scent of yesterdays the pathways of the past
forward now the future into the everlast
Proverbs 16
24 Gracious words are a honeycomb,
sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.
COPYRIGHT © 2013 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
You were born here,
Blue Ridge foothills,
spirits of Cherokee in
Appalachia's olden heart and veins.
Scots-Irish influence of beloved
bluegrass,
moonshine of the drinking kind.
Your parents weren't the responsible
type,
as you and your three sisters spent
your childhoods in foster care and were
once left with your mother's cruel friend
for two years,
you went through so much.
Your single grandmother Robbie
did the best she could,
a beautician on her feet all day.
Her white farmhouse with no
indoor bathroom,
and an outhouse in the yard.
She fried okra better than anyone,
grew an acre of tobacco.
You were living in Texas,
joined the Navy at nineteen,
and it became your home.
We met within its ranks,
survivors of child abuse.
We wed, weren't wealthy.
We raised our daughter after
returning to your hometown.
You walked her down the aisle,
and treasured our son-in-law,
and grandchildren too.
You passed at the age of
fifty-nine,
interred by a gentle stream
in the Veterans Cemetery,
where someday I'll also be.
Appalachian Homecoming,
as banjos and dulcimers play softly. ~
It's not 1948, Pepsi in paper cups,
foot-long hot dogs, window trays at fast-
food drive ins, and outdoor movies,
getting each other going in the back seat
of a Dodge. It's the front seat of your Honda
after beers in the parking lot of a midtown
bookstore where the local public access
TV crew tries to prove poetry alive and well
in this part of the Deep South, miles from
Flannery's wise blood, Faulkner's small town
square, the spirits, demons and dulcimers
of that pied piper, James Dickey, who might
have approved of us, might have said Yes!
Go for it! and for twenty ecstatic minutes,
we did. Now, in the charged air of chance
meetings, you ask, "Shall we ever?" and
I fall back into twenty minutes of
paradise--their immortal possibilities.
SIX
To join the angels in joyful repast,
Where is no shame, nor overeating e’er,
Is her least gift, ‘tis given at the last…
Before, they stroke their golden dulcimers rare,
And sing like rivers babbling over rocks,
And sing like trees that whisper in the wind,
And sing like birds, a-winging in their flocks,
And shine, like mighty folk, who never sinned!
There, for her, burgeon green, and growing things,
There, poor folk feed each other, free from envies,
There, service is the measure of all Kings,
Wherever they do go, their only envoys
Are streams of butterflies and honeybees,
Which bless the kings, and glow (which each King sees!)