How does he do it?
His brain no more than finger nail
Singing a scale of notes I cannot sing
Nor can forget.What does he say? It seems he knows
But what? Is there some communication...
A radiating beam that strikes the tiles
The message always clearer
When he sings upon the roof?
Black as night, she brown discrete, a job to do
Keep warm and safe. Silence is the key
Eight is late, to bed, one last egg to hatch.
If he could write would he write it down..
All those notes without a scale, more than twelve,
An alphabet of sounds, as random as the sea
Would he even try? each note is sent its way,
The thought.. if thought there be lost above the roof.
There is no past for him no future, all is now.
No thinking in the melody but joy and being well
Yesterday? What is that? Never heard of yesterday
Of today doen't even care.
How long will it be? What is long? Is it a worm?
A brain no more than fingernail only room for hope.
Maybe I'm wrong....
Is there a message in your song
Do I leave a space to listen, to you kind soul?
Your life so short...'though long enough
Just long enough, no more.
When song is gone so will you be gone.
Its all you want to do
John Rickell's Other Poems
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Blackbird by John Rickell )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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