(The following two poems were written about me, by my friends)

 

For Morgan

We all know a talented man called Morgan

Who plays LOTS of instruments, except the Organ

With the beat of his drum

Our hips go dum tak dom

As he plucks his guitar strings

Shimmies a plenty the sound brings

His crooning soulful music

Makes us sway and get lost in it

But it’s the words that he writes

That this year has given all our hearts flight

The poetry that makes our soul dance

His way with words is a thing of romance

Thank you for sharing this gift

Pre-rehearsal it gave us a lift

Forgive this fabled attempt to replicate

But in its sentiment we wanted to duplicate

The feelings of gratitude all warm and proud

That a personalized poem said out loud

Brings to the receiver, the listener, hearer

In to the light a little clearer!

Written by Sarah Jay and Sarah-Tucker-Boehm

The Gift - For Morgan

To see the world through your eyes, it must be like magic

a place where everything is detailed yet so simple

To see the world through your eyes, with the wisdom of an ancient bard,

paralleled with the enthusiasm of a child seeing everything for the first time

The details, every detail, from the finest thread, to the most delicate sound

woven into a story only you could tell

You are a wordsmith, a music maker, a dream weaver

A seer of wonder in those around you, yet humble in your own 

talents

To see the world through your eyes, it must be like magic

the spark of a heel on the side walk, a dungeon full of dragons, 

a room full of stars, you pull the stars down and weave them around 

us like a warm blanket,

a hug, a cup of the finest hot chocolate

You are a wordsmith, a music maker, a dream weaver, a gift giver

you have a view like no other, the words pour out of you like a 

magnificent waterfall

To see our world through your eyes, it becomes magic

A true gift is one that is given without expectation,

You are a wordsmith, a music maker, a dream weaver,

You are a true gift giver

Written by Regan Gardner

                                       

 For Simon

(Feb 2021)

His humble silence speaks volumes,

compare him to a tree standing in the field

with all the world taking shelter beneath his subtle shade

his unobtrusive presence, giving

always giving

listening,

never imposing, nor confounding,

just,

asking every now and then

if this might be the thing

the time

the idea

that might work?

And how,

if he might,

take his place cross legged

upon the stage,

where he might play music

with his friend

so that we

might all

smile with his smile

and dream a little

beneath the shelter of his

gentle shade,

where he could play music endlessly

and the day might vanish in the pleasure of his company,

we might un-crease our brows

un-knot our shoulders

unclench our jaws and

slide

up

into the clouds

wherefrom, as midnight rain, we might return to the earth

a little kinder

a little softer

a little gentler than before,

resting here

in the shelter of his subtle shade.

 

For Bridgette

I see you out the corner of my eye

a glance

a gesture

your hand gliding

your foot sliding

but as I play the song,

focused overwhelmingly on my fingers and my heartbeat

I cannot see the whole story

you are telling

yet

I know

that whatever narrative, or

whatever adventures your dance takes you on

I trust that

you step in the footprints of poetry

you spin on the breath of the song,

blue as the sky

blue as the night

and just the same

full of wild birds

and starlight

 

For Sarafina

even backstage, chilling with her man or chatting with her crew, she is a star,

she is full of warmth and light

we orbit about her

she whose smile rises from her eyes and covers everything she sees

You have to watch her eyes to really know what’s going on, you see, while you’re watching her, she’s looking out through those glimmering stars,

she’s peeking out from behind her veil

but get this...the veil hides nothing.

It’s a spotlight in her hand

it’s a trailing stream of living colour

accenting, outlining,

mapping the contours

and if for a moment your eyes cannot see every thing

the mind will conjure

the scenery,

the desert wind

the cascading leaves of autumn

the pouring rain of winter

the glimmering diamonds of sunlight in spring

her eyes…

... so full of warmth and light

we orbit around her,

she whose smile rises from the very earth beneath her feet,

making every part of her glow

lighting up the room

illuminating all our happiness

You have to watch her eyes to really know what’s going on, you see, while you’re watching her, she’s looking out through those glimmering stars...

 

For Tony

There is a trick to his smile, something in his mischievous curling moustache and the crinkling skin, so full of promise, winking at the corner of his eyes. There is a hidden energy inside his steady step and noble posture. Up the red stairs, I see him carrying his piano, his cajon, his tashigoto, his halo, this alchemist is a wandering warrior monk, capable of dancing and singing and clapping in divisive triple time, and all the while breathing his mathematic mantras, he maintains perfect balance.

During rehearsal in the bright day-lit studio, he sits astride his box drum, surrounded by technological marvels that, like cybernetic enhancements from some sci-fi dream, grant him a vast capacity for spontaneous poly-rhythmic melodies. Here at least, some of his mystery is revealed, for one cannot hide behind one's music, it reveals all of the unspoken parts of a person's story. His music is a portrait of a well travelled man, both in the realm of countries and people and places, but also in that vast and significant inner world that is a little more difficult to describe, yet equally adventurous to explore.

We see through our mind's eye into the world of imagination. We hear through our inner ear the songs of all creation. We feel through our flesh the truth of our feelings, and this man, this multi-cultural musical alchemist and dancer, speaks to us with an inner voice, with an inner language that we all hear, and we all understand. In defiance of the count of his years, he is lifted from within by a youthful buoyancy, and we who are graced to know him, we who are blessed to work and play with this living example of a modern international man of culture and intelligence and joy, cannot help but be lifted up with him, a little closer to the sun.

 

For Sarah (Her nature cannot be rushed)

Imagine her,

She dances slowly,

no,

slower than that,

internalise it

first, the heart must move, and then the body may follow the music, like the trees follow the wind, like flowers follow the sun, like the ocean follows the tide.

Slow,

no,

slower than that,

nature cannot rush.

Just like she cannot be rushed. The heart will not allow it. The music will not allow it. The night will not be pushed aside by the eager sun, just as the world tapping at the window will not bestir her from the ponderous precision of her turning heel, turning toe,

She perches upon a branch, a step, a stage,

a bird upon a twig,

a blade of grass,

a drop of water

upon

a petal

in the warm

summer

afternoon

slow,

no,

slower than that,

internalise it,

she turns like bird on the wing,

ruffling her feathers and floating upon the shadows beneath her,

She is silent

while her heart speaks through her body

like the wind speaks through the trees

like the moon speaks through the tides

Imagine her dancing,

slow,

no, slower than that,

her nature cannot be rushed.

 

For Regan

Summer rain makes the night beautiful, and the city is ready, eager, skipping in line to start the festival. We walk, cloaked, through crowds and past restaurants, we pause to cross the street, our conversation casual, our hard heels clicking on concrete and heads turning, eyes glancing as we pass. At our destination, we are ushered in to a private room, where we pause only a moment in preparation; everything feels frictionless, fluid, nothing goes wrong, cash on arrival, everyone polite, the staff well informed and calm...

But the crowd, the crowd were not calm.

They were cheering from the moment you entered the room, nearly on their feet, whooping and crying out with delight. They understood what they were seeing, and what they gave back was the unfiltered energy of celebration. I don't even know what they were celebrating, I was only told this was a Greek party. It seemed like there were multiple guests of honour, as you were drawn into the crowd with this gentleman, or that lady, to share the simple wonder of a coloured shawl, and a shaking hip.

I felt almost invisible; honoured to be asked to drum for you again, I watch the brightening faces of the crowd follow you as you dance from shadow into light, between tables and back again to the dance floor. They wriggle in their seats, they love to clap and to shout, and they are really good at it. They listen, they feel, they let the music run through them, I can see it all from where I sit on the edge of your light.

On the edge of your light.