by Jack Brown 


The squirrels told her
it was safe to talk with me.
Birds who protected her before
gave their approval.
They look after their own.
Wearing ribbons of struggle
she beckoned with wounds
and wonder. Seeking
the moral high ground. Nurturing
the will to be brave.

Neither unkind nor criminal
I offered namaste
and an authentic ear. A private
hearing in a public place.
Over soup I shared
umbrella analytics.
She found a syllogism of clarity.
I made a phone call. Good news.
Warm under a gray sky.
After the rain.


Imbued with the amplitude
of the night
I play the stars
with velvet hammers.
Like a vibraphone.
Melody is destiny.
Harmony a ripe measure
of the moment
married to the eternal.

Keep a high heart.
Wave and be brave.
Cherish truth.
Embrace enduring love.


Feather cat alights
on the radio corner
of the bed.
Music therapy morning.
Social. Near me.
At little desk.
Floyd ( her son ) at window.
Her family.
Swift piano. Low.
Flying fingers. Upright bass.
Feather feels the mouse like
runs. The pitter pat
of the bass.
The musical chase.
Sound lively.
Violin wanders
over the hill.
A meandering bee.
Up and down the scale.
Around the bush.
Piano kicks in again.
Bird skylarking.
Bright sunny day.
Drums. Brush slap slap.
Scratch scratch.
Sweet sound poetry.
Music therapy.

About the Author:

Jack Brown

Jack Brown. Poet, songwriter & activist. Lives in New York City.