Voices
The Music Maker
The music has a heartbeat,
A pulse all its own.
The music has a voice
That sings to the world.
The music has a mind;
It controls itself.
Yet --
He owns the music;
He is the music.
The music is inside him;
It lives within in him.
When he left --
The music ceased its thinking.
The melody no longer sang.
The drums no longer had a heartbeat.
Now we’re left
With an empty pair of leather shoes
By a single, sparkling glove.
The Performer
His fingers dance on the guitar;
His palm bumps tambourine.
His throat belts out a striking note;
He makes me want to scream.
His eyebrow soaked in streaming sweat;
His bangs hugging his forehead.
His chest heaves for the note it holds;
He speaks with words unread.
His eyes have a wild look;
His thought: “Nothing to lose.”
His display is one of exaltation;
He makes me want to move.
His lips mouth a gentle word;
His breath comes out in gasps.
His smile is one of light and hope;
He has potential yet untapped.
A True Artist
A true artist isn’t made by talent
Or adept skill alone.
The measure of the heart he pours
Will make him far renowned.
The artists who are really so
Are those who speak from the soul,
Whose self they never sacrifice
Just to reach their goals.
Beautiful books of poetry,
And enchanting works of music,
Have no spell or power if
The maker’s heart’s not in it.
Write of pain and sing of heartbreak;
That anyone can do.
But only those who’ve really felt it
Can make others feel it, too.
We all want to be artists,
But only those with pride
Can step up with the courage
To let their souls outside.
Heavy Hearts
Although their tears stay secret
(You never hear the cries of the broken),
Their art reveals the pain inside,
And speaks the words unspoken.
Whenever your heart is heavy,
And you feel like you’re on your own,
Just turn up the radio
To know you’re not alone.
