"There are confessable agonies, sufferings of which one can positively be proud. Of bereavement, of parting, of the sense of sin and the fear of death the poets have eloquently spoken. They command the world's sympathy. But there are also discreditable anguishes, no less excruciating than the others, but of which the sufferer dare not, cannot speak. The anguish of thwarted desire, for example."
Monday, April 30, 2012
AN OLD SONG
the beat knows not me,
its age hardly known,
the sax blares,... soothing clefs rise to the awaiting air,
such a wave an aire invites,
an old man does his magic,
a fella on the chords,
a strap down to the woods that sway upon his waist run,
fingers along treasured strings,
another sits,
head dancing,
next to a loved gentle black giant,
the two buddies for ages been,
palms upon the beautiful blacks and whites,
left to right and together meet,
upon the dark space in twos bodies follow,
in clarks and plats choreograph,
under lights that flash,
in and out,
up and down,
merry is made,
an old flame ignited,
the mood is mellow,
a kiss won't miss,
such a day be magical,
in such love was classical,
the touch of an old song,
in many a throng,
only a few know.
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