A Saturday NaPo table prompted me to compose a poem given inspiration from a musical notation of my choosing from a list of 21. Then, I was supposed to select a musical genre from another list of 21. Finally, I was to use in said poem one or more words I picked from a third column of 21. You can see the entire table which was Bogarted from an old Twitter account by clicking here.

My selections were: “lord have mercy;” folk song; and bones, butterflies, + banquet.

Pay to Play

I am not a musician.
No instrument can I play.
My singing’s not worth the price of admission.
Not even in church while
surrounded by singing Baptists on the Lord’s Day.

I love music. I wanna be
all those things. Just good enough
will satisfy me.

When I hear it, the many from way back then,
when, lord have mercy, a folk song
written and sung during the genre revival,

gets into my bones
I can get butterflies. I become
the man-boy I was with hair and zits,
now my playlist becomes
a veritable banquet. Then I sigh,
and I wonder why
they don’t get it.
Like rain they hear it but they get no feel.
Frankly, they just get wet.

Look both ways but remember; your song is yours, your music is born into your soul.
It matters not what others think, this is your thing.
Mind the gaps but you’ll never explain not knowing what was for lunch,
yet you still know the words to songs from fifty years ago.