Hail to the conch voiced man.

He, with the coals of a thousand storms along his brow,
The sound of him some infinite embodied carillon,
Strides the beach below the silver bellied birds.
Each slams its own ephemeral eclipse,
a shadow on the shrinking sand.

But soon the city men, the nitty gritty little literary men,
(as is their wont with those whose eyes
are full of skies the colours of which they have not seen,
whose ears can hear the music ever hidden
in the mouth of the condor and the hawk,)
they ring him round and try to beat him down.

A dying of a subtly different kind
approaches in the singing of his mind
He knows these city men they also die,
go slowly down and daily.
Each moment spent wasted a smooth stone spinning
their faces, their fears, their fancies, to vacuous moons
til softly, like the faded depressions on sofas
abandoned lonely by grandparents to the odours of memory
their dreams fly out the window then
to find a sleeping four year old and start again

He shrinks and sinks (not caring, for the song is all) below
their blows all bleeding but (inside) unbowed
and sings and sings and sings to them.

They do not hear.

My email: dasleben@fairpoint.net.

Would love to hear from you, fill me in on your life!

Steve Cushing
Pioneers of the Blues Revival