SOURCERY    <return to contents

Strings of Wisdom
The curly-haired silver music man
plucks a wisdom
dreamed by elders, Emerson,
Thoreau's pond chats,
harvested in the hills of Whitman,
dried on broken-down buses
of old bluegrass and folk bands
cured in smoky backhill cabins
and hollow hoedowns,
a tear or two forming into song
served up as Earth Opera
opening for the Doors or --
three decades later --
in a small temples beneath the oaks,
sunlight wandering west.

So great the wisdom
of your songs, guitar and mandolin
strings plucking
hillbilly, dreamy folk, Navajo corn dance,
country Hawaiian slide, piece of the Dead,
voice in three octaves, voice a string
journey into Buddha,
lotus petals thrown at Saraswati's feet,
nothing you'd hear at a bluegrass fest
but the sweet melodies
set our souls into flight --
Jesus would call it water-into-wine.

He puts the strings away
and leaves the plucking
within our hearts, our own musics,
our peculiar round-robin zig-zag journeys
through spirit, nature, a catchy tune --
wandering wisdom soul
angel star journey
fire and flower, sundance

Om Gati Gati Paragati Parasumgati Bodhi Swaha

for Peter Rowan