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Array
(
[sid] => 143992
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Glockenspiel
[time] => 2008-07-18 13:58:46
[hometext] => And music is, what music is, whoever's tune it spins; for where it ends, like make-pretend, the story soon begins.
[bodytext] => (This poem blatantly and unfortunately misuses the meaing of the word Glockenspiel to mean Music Box. Those who I offend I apologize to in advance. It's also why I didn't post it until now.) Here’s a little glockenspiel, defining what is real; Here’s a little glockenspiel, still looking for a wheel. Here’s a little glockenspiel, with nothing but the spiel, For here’s a little glockenspiel, forgetting how to feel. It could soar on wings of music If someone had but opened it, Its little heart-shaped case; A little drum so powerful it sang a smiling face. But time, you know, does rust things shut, And moments go to waste, And somewhere just along the way, It savored but a taste. The time befalls a special call when tunes beset the air; If all could strive, they’d feel alive within the moment, there. It started out so simple, the littlest of prayers— One born among the beautiful, if misery is fair A heart of gold, it once was called, a source of joy and hope A minute recreation of the greater splendor’s scope And deep within would always sit, for every misanthrope Unbounded, endless happiness, the cure for all myopes. It didn’t want the world or escape from pain and strife It didn’t seek the mystery or dream of job or wife. If anything the music asked for something none could cite, And note for note beholden, wished for meaning in its life. For it was not the childhood gift which it had once believed, Its song sang hollow emptiness instead of silv’ry weaves And somewhere, somewhere, on the way, its sterling rhythm grieved, It cast aside a drum from which sweet hope should draw its leaves. And on and on the journey goes, wherever which it may, For one who seeks what not it knows, shall wander everyday Though truth and treasure plain in sight, the world is but a gray For nothing is a lost as one lost looking for its way. So sits a little music box, its gold lid rusted shut; Beneath the paint did water taint and evanescence cut An ache for former glory, like a howl for moon and what It knew it had, upon a time, in place of cold rebut. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 404 [topic] => 44 [informant] => EternitysLyre [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Nostalgic )
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