The Song

My father lies upon his bed in afternoon sun
Hands on stomach, fingers splayed as if still holding the oboe
Eyes closed, chest rattling his coda of half notes and half rests.

A year on, and my son sits in his cafeteria,
Holds the euphonium, breathes his first note.
Is that his own breath in that brass,
Or is he some new mouthpiece of my father,
Invisibly tweaking his embouchure
Adjusting his posture
Dilating his airway
That the Song might go on
Another verse if not forever?

And does my son hear the ancestral call
Of Wagner, fox hunt, shofar, didgeridoo
Back and back and back to the first
Who stood clad in the ram’s hide on a hilltop
And blew through something louder than his throat,
That the stars might know
We are here.


2 comments on “The Song

  1. Bobbie Oese-Siegel says:

    Thank you for the abundance of your words on so many topics. Love the Cow poem, the 5Reasons etc. Can’t wait to dive in some stolen moment that frees itself-up before some other task or obligation claims it. I write a reply here on this lovely “musical” poem because of the connection to a music You tube you posted (I didn’t know where else to pose this question – my You tube window doesn’t have a comment section). I need to know who claims as her own that ethereal voice rising to the heavens on the You tube video you posted entitled “O Baha’u’llah.” And the historic fotos combined with the voice just emptied me out.

    Thanks for any info if you are able to share out.
    ~Bobbie O-S

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