Musical Theory

My guitars make me happy.
They sing.  They make me feel
new tongues.  They teach me
clear intent and accidental
spelunking. I hope I do
the same for them, hope
they feel me, change for themselves,
open up and become more
in my hands as they age.

My mandolin made me happy.
It barked and hollered and
played puppy to my joy.  But
when time moved and we did not,
I released it to another who knew
how to raise it better than I,
and I pray it’s happy and singing
and bluegrass choir praiseworthy
wherever it is now.

There were drums and ukeleles
that I did not love but merely liked
and I don’t know where they all went;
a recorder or two, keyboards,
violin and sarangi all felt
lost in my hands, long before
they went away; were they ever
really here?  Maybe all I held
of them was the wood and the strings
and the skin.  Maybe they were always
searching for home, even as I kept them
from the quest.

Every instrument needs a lover
to hold it.  If it is unloved, if it merely
sits trophy in a corner or closet,
it wanders.  It slips away
even if you lock it away.  You’ll
be lost too if you do that, your ears
always bent for the horizon, pricked
for the come-on, the pickup line;
your hands forming the right chords
but no song coming forth, no burst
of perfection, no praise for the act
of two as one.