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Poetry for the Moment

we cannot see them,

we can hardly hear
our man’s words:
“He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters.
He restores. . . .”

Like hungry animals,
the engines snarl,growl and snort

in crescendo.

On and on.
We wait.
There must be hundreds
on this Sunday jaunt.

The wild cacophony wanes.

Diminuendo.

The bikes are headed to
their Jerusalem,

the perfume of spring

their rod,
their passion their staff.

They shall not want.

The next night, jazz resounded into the quiet village and across the pond. Four young men in black gave their versions of “Who’s Sorry Now” and “Ain’t Misbehavin” to a packed crowd of jazz lovers. The drums made crazy rhythms, Scott’s sax cried out. The old floors bounced as we all tapped our feet and held ourselves back from dancing. There was no room for that.

It was a happy night, a very happy night. Now the walls are silent once more, the paintings and the flowers are gone and the church waits for the doors to open for summer services. And, you know, those motorcycles will be out and about, racing toward Loudon.

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Updated Thursday, May 7th, 2009
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