The Fourth Night

Come with me, gaze tonight, into my world of transient dreams,
Where fairies flit upon the sands, resting until beauty gleams...
Come with me, your eyes though closed, still watching splendor full adorned,
Tears die there upon request; unmissed, unloved, and best-- unmourned.


Stay with me, my heart’s bequest, laze for eons in my arms,
Freed from stresses, love's frail craft lies moored in freeport, safe from harm...
Stay with me though starry night might beg entry, flashing eyes aglow,
Rejected once, its harried flight through cracks and fissures tries to flow.


Rule with me dominions grand, perched atop passions’ rubied throne,
Lightning bolts of pleasured lust have issued edicts- ours alone.
Rule we naught but what we feel, regal matters lost in rapture?
Affairs of heart take precedence; frenzy dictates terms of capture.

Rest with me, laze tonight, within my world of prescient dreams,
Where pixies flit upon your hands, resting still with beauty’s sheen…
Rest with me, your eyes yet closed, reliving glory that was born,
Tears of joy sit on my chest, treasured most when not forlorn.

Copyright 2007 Bob Church

Blues, my brothers...

I feel so good right now... energized in a way that is difficult to describe. And it didn't take much to accomplish it, either. I merely sat down on my couch and tuned the TV to AMC. I caught the last 30 minutes of The Blues Brothers, and came in during the scene where Cab Calloway and The Cotton Club Orchestra are performing "Minnie the Moocher". Immediately, convulsively, inextricably, I felt my foot begin to tap and my hands start to drum on the sofa... the blues inside me demanded to come out! Cab in his white tuxedo, slow-handing around the stage with his trademark "Hidey, Hidey, Hidey, Hi... Hodey, Hodey, Hodey, ho...skiddley, skiddley, skiddley, skee...", the crowd going wild and whatever soul I possess suddenly yearning to stand and dance along with him.

Then, on cue, Jake and Elwood goofy-foot their way onto the stage with, "Everybody loves somebody", Wilson Pickett's masterpiece zephyring non-stop across my consciousness, culminating in Sam Cooke's immortal, "Sweet Home Chicago" before I was able to realize that I'm really neither black nor standing alongside a thousand other revelers in Calumet City, Illinois… and I didn’t care. Sweet Jesus, does it get any better than this?

I don't need Masterpiece Theater right now... it'll wait. For now, I think I'll just go put on a little early Jimi Hendrix or Howlin' Wolf and pretend it's 1964, when we still had a conscience and time to feel our music's soul.