Saturday, May 21, 2016

Ghosts Of Singers

Ghosts Of Singers
© Surazeus
2016 05 21

Wandering down the city street in gold mist
near the hour of midnight in your dream,
I hear the ghosts of singers and their bands
who sang love songs in night clubs long ago.

I pause under gold light on empty street
and hear Frank Sinatra on smoky stage
singing Maybe You Will Be There in voice
that cements every brick hall in New York.

I look through rain-streaked window in cafe,
peering closely to see faces and eyes
of lonely people who crowd smoke-filled hall
but they vanish in mute shadows of time.

Then somewhere far down narrow city street
sweet music spirals forward through gold mist,
rhythmic melody of heart-beating hope
that swirls around me like flowing silk cape.

From shadows of time I see them appear,
every singer who stood on bright-lit stage
in ten thousand years, sea to shining sea,
and sang dreams of our hearts in dancing words.

Leaping and twirling, they dance as they croon
songs of every social status and type
from every age, sacred and secular,
rich and poor, voices blending in one choir.

How their faces glow with sorrow and joy
as they hold hands and leap in swirling curves,
ten million ghosts of singers who once lived
and rang the air with voices of desire.

I feel myself awake in every hall
and church, around campfires on river shores,
and in living rooms of every small town,
listening to every song ever intoned.

Around me forever in swirls they dance,
serenading my mute soul with sweet choir
of mind-enchanting melodies that spell
visions of human character we feel.

So lost in harmony of all their chants
that ring in calculus of chiming words,
while twirling around in wild ecstasy,
I fail to see ghosts of singers dissolve.

Snapping awake at sudden flash of light
from distant car turning down a side street,
I look around and find myself alone
on city street at midnight of gold mist.

Yet still sweet echo of their humming choir
ripples across bottomless sea of time
that swells from my heart in fountain of love
and surges to propel me forth in life.

Every singer who lived and died on Earth,
since Amen stood by shining lake of stars
and taught us how to sing dreams of our eyes,
gazes out from my eyes and hopes to sing.

I stand on street corner in warm sunlight,
watching people walking by, so I breathe
spirit from ghosts of singers in my heart,
and chant never-ending song of mankind.

1 comment: