A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.

but aren't they all random?

Friday, August 28, 2020

Never confuse a ballad with a lay

She knew her stuff. 
I strutted mine
in naive fingerings, 
rough-handed chords
to cradle nerves with gall,
and chop emotion everywhere
it needs to fall, each moment
picked and rang with perfect
feeling fixed, in broken words 
and admixed pure.

She seemed to like it. Quite a bit? Hey,

Want some more?

Oh sure, she beamed! Enjoying 
right and wrong and tart
and sweet along. After a few,
"Hey, play a slower one!"
She sang, she called.

A song.

I felt some cue.
I trained on her my worst
best perfect one. And beautifully,
I gave it due. She took it
thoughtfully. 

"That's good," she mused. 

But not for me.    

Just kidding. It was plain, sweet more
and less, and everything, and good
enough, and fine as finest be.
Or anyway, 
It went.

She had some things to say, 
well-chosen, well-observed
in time well-spent. A well-turned ear 
she had, an eye for detailed sweep, a mind 
to weigh what's excellent, while noting 
flaws and all to keep. She understood

a song, and so much else. 

I took her readily, and didn't mind her
asking more. She'd won my high regard
with grace, by handling that one huge gaffe!

Unmeant, I'd slipped - we'd talked 
of songs by genre, type, compare/contrast. So 

when she asked for "slower one," unthought,
and showing off, I asked:

"You want a ballad or a lay?"

And froze. My words played back in mind
with too much gain. But she just laughed! 
And shook her head.

"Your choice. But not too fast."

"Of course!" I said
in faint shock and relief,
to carry on
undead.

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