He played her heart

strings, plucked each

one with practised

hand, ode to joy


in every note. By

the time her soul

was his, he had changed

his tune, cadence


soured by off-colour

harmonies out of

place with love

songs; now her


heart-strings sag,

derelict, waiting

to be moved by

a new duet.


Sing a Song of Winter

Winter Sparrow

Sing a song of winter,

a sparrow with a chill;

Sing about the way he flits

while filling up his bill.

Croon for him a song of old,

to sing the cold away;

Harmonize with frost and ice,

and winsome-warm his day.

Sunlight Sonata

Sunlight Sonata, symphonic display;

Resplendent dependent on burgeoning day.

Marriage of melody, harmony, rest;

Riding on sound-wave, a pinnacled crest.

Maestro of magical motionless note;

Composer of lyrical sound-bytes that float.

Musical masterpiece, Musician’s art;

Striking a chord with this song in my heart.

Finding Melody in the Primordial Ooze

Imagine for a moment…

Imagine that you just turned forty.

Imagine that you just learned some things.

Imagine that you learned that what was, wasn’t.  And worse – that what wasn’t, was.  That  your very identity had been borrowed from lies others had told you for so long, you forgot they weren’t even true.

Imagine that you learned The Secret.

And in the learning, the Big Bang undid all your DNA, and you found yourself, stunned, floating at the whim of a biological current,  bits of blown-up soul-particles scattered hither and yon throughout a primordial ooze.

The shock almost did you in.

Sing, Melody, sing!

Imagine that you bobbed and wove your way in the dark for – what was it?  Days?  Months?  Or years?  It little mattered.

Sing, Melody, sing!

As your eyes adjusted to the low light,  you began to see ‘you-bits’ – so many!  But so many were only bone-bleached carcasses of what you thought belonged –  their skinless skulls ‘hearkened with a grin,'(1) begging you to give them skin-space inside you.  But that still small voice told you they were misfits, caricatures of a cadence, not the real song.

Sing, Melody, sing!

“But I don’t know the notes!” you cried.

Little by little, you discovered clues – note by note, the parts were assembled.  A tremor, whisper-thin, stretched you taut, and you began to hum.

Sing, Melody, sing!

“But I can’t discern the tune!” you cried.

In practicing, your discoveries mounted.  Discriminating more easily between falsetto and vibrato, your trembling fingers sought more elements – rests and staves, clefs and trills, all were woven into the humming.

Sing, Melody, sing!

“What words do I sing?” you cried, exhausted and undone.

What words do you want to sing?

And you knew.  You knew.  Your song was your choice.  The building blocks were all around you, in a beautiful chaos, yours for the choosing.  The letters, a cosmic alphabet soup, bobbed in delightful freshness.  The Voice, a heavenly harmony, provided the back-up.  And the Song – oh, the song!  Its ribbons of light-energy pulsated with a beauty so visceral, it strummed your vocal chords.

And you sang!

“The mountains and hills will burst into song, and the trees of the field will clap their hands! ”  Isaiah 55:12 NLT  

And all of creation, hearing the Melody, sang along…

(1) A reference to Canadian poet Robert Service’s work “The Cremation of Sam McGee”