Music

Strum me like a guitar, I make music in your hands.
Calloused tips tip the scales in the favor of the player,
Make me sing the high notes of praise and inspire the guttural calls of heat.
Drum me daringly, devastingly, daintily, I keep the beat under your hands.
My skin is tightly strectched for your percussionary pleasure.
Bang out of me the response to the deep timpani’s call.
I am a flute under your lips, blowing sweet sounds under your command.
Press my buttons and ply tunes gently from my metal casing.
Lead the band with the pure mucsic you pull from me.

My attempts at poetry

Beverly
You were the Eve that gave birth to me and a new world.
You fed me the fruit of knowledge and taught me to be like You.
Crisp and tart but secretly sweet, a granny smith apple.
You gave me ideals to live for and the stength to be different.
You gave me a love of Cher, baked goods, and Southern Tradition.
And with your death you gave the power to break free of McCrory.
You still remain chained with the roots of the peace lilly I watered with tears
But you are free with me as I travel this Earth.
Rooted in the dark Delta soil you fertilize our Mother as you fertilized me, Mother.
Forever, all I am and do is in your memory.
I will be your living Requiem.

Half a century passed far to fast and another will pass far to slow.
Time turns slowly without Summertime’s lyrics coloring my day.
Without yeast rolls filling my stomach with the warmth of butter and love.
Without midnight grilled cheese and gossip renewing our bond.
Without stories of a badass, pole dancing, Navy coremen mother easing my boredom.
Without life of your own, you will share mine.
I will be your living Requiem.