It started with an amazing post by she who is made of light. Brooke Breazeale in this challenge she made. Her challenge was to Tom Being Tom, who responded with an AMAZING piece of poetry that proves he’s so fucking great with words. All words. Your rhythm my brother. Your rhythm.
And so, you looked my way. All questing done, you nodded across the campfire and passed me an ale, thus signifying it was my tale to tell. My song to sing. And I accepted. It is with humble reluctance, as Brooke mentioned in a comment, that I try to tell you just where I come from.
I am …
Son of a southern belle;
She. The true steel magnolia.
Son of a musician turned teacher.
And teacher. And teacher. And teacher.
Biloxi born but bayou bred
Alas, I was not cut of that ilk.
One shot. False shot. Only one
And I become a pupil of Assisi.
Touched by joy and seeker of light,
I am of compassion and composition.
I’m become. Lost in love of the lyric and song.
My life story to change. To shift. To Drift?
A life to flow as with music. Full of notes.
Half notes. Quarter notes. Whole notes.
So many key changes and resting stops
Are the sheet music what is my life.
Codas with endless crescendos
And the dying diminuendos.
I wrestle inside to find. To resign
Myself and harmonic dissonance
And all those syncopated choices.
Living with darkness and light.
A boy. A beast. A man all
Learning to hold hands for
This is what I am. The wild child.
Five of five Cleavers I am.
Yet always my own pipe and piper.
A witty and willing romantic
But unwitting poet born late.
I’m a hybrid and of hubris,
Of golf and of geek.
Of business and soft words.
And with that I set down my empty flagon and look around the campfire. This is hard. Hard to choose. But I must pour and pass the next cup to an amazing writer, poet, and person. She sees more than she thinks, and thinks deep. Susan, my Cali girl. Please accept my humble request.