The Music Never Stopped

The Music Never Stopped

(“Blow the trumpet in Zion; sanctify a fast; call a solemn assembly.” Joel 2:15)

The loudspeakers are not selective,
their frequency soars across the plaza,
echoes off the stone hills,
pushes the river further downstream,
ricochets off the banks and restaurants downtown.

The banjos announce the time to assemble,
the mandolins sing the same again,
the brass hold back until the crows settle on
the asphalt paths and parking lots.
Congas call the drum circles’ song,
while whirling banners and shawls dance down
the back streets; the streams overflow as feet
skip and hurry to the call.

Even steeples seem higher, enemies shyer,
and confreres delight in the deepening day.
The tables are spread like a village wedding
on the sidewalks, on the boulevard,
on front lawns, on courthouse steps;
The weeping is over and repentance has
washed every debate away for another day.

We celebrate like children again, laugh as we
sing like Dylan again. The borders have opened,
the doors are unlocked, we have opened our ears
and learned the stories of immigrants and widows,
and those from african, caribbean, muslim, cynic
and pagan descent. We bowed our heads just long enough
to hear everything we thought God had never said.

We shed tears for the sheep we kept out of the pen,
for the words we called those who sang the blues over
and over
again.
We repaid the stolen generations, we honored the
broken treaties, we learned the native tongues
we once called foreign and delighted in their unfamiliar
rhythms. 

We reviewed the outcropping from peak to valley
and had never seen the imported air the same.

The music never stopped; we still learned silence.
The feasting never ended; we still fasted with grace.
The churches did not close; we still chose the way
the light played over everything.
The lion, the lamb, the prayerful and uncertain,
the oldschool, the post-modern, sat on the lawn
all day long
and woke at dawn to start the festival
over again.

Upon Their Resolution

Upon Their Resolution

(“…in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.” 1 Corinthians 15:52)

How do we slice the moments smaller and slower
to savor the glance, the hidden smile we saw by chance?
Where do we find the spoken word from angels who delivered
the comfort, the backstory. We preferred they unveil themselves
and announce their names. Instead they pass into the crowd.

Why do words stay captive we would rather exterminate,
the angry harangues, the deceptive offers and winks that
disguised smoldering hate.

Why can’t we capture that single tone of the single song
which turned round and round our heart-chilled winter,
the whole-note (a thousand tiny vibrations) that let us weep,
let us steep in joyful esteem?

Who turns the twinkle, who plucks the quiver of the harp,
who flaps the wing or buzzes the gnat; all tiny, all visible,
now;
unseen past the next eye’s blink? Can the thought appear
and vacate the same space, the same time, the same atomic
structure of particles and waves, string and elasticity?

Where is the finale; the two chord answer to the opening fanfare?
Is it a surprise ending, with the patrons half-clapping when the
chorus resounds full of calliope and merry-go-round?
Or, having grown accustomed to the tune, background hum
of simply living, are we startled by the horn-blast, wishing
more time?

I cannot say I’ve enjoyed every moment; the clash of chorded half-steps
leave me unsettled and anxious. But upon their resolution, the
thunder across the mountains, the cannon in slow motion,
on our feet (or deafly impassive) will we applaud the final act

And stand in line for the next Master’s Creation?