Dangling Conversations

I've gone through an ABBA phase, and then a Beatles phase. This followed a Bob Dylan phase. And a Frank Sinatra phase. And preceding all this was a Simon and Garfunkel phase. So why does one go through these phases over and over again. It's definitely not a passe, and I believe it, as a subject, deserves some pondering on my part.

So why does a Frank Sinatra tune run in my head. Why is it that when I try my hand at poetry, my muses are straight out of Bob Dylan's verses. Or why does Paul Simon's lyrics inspire me to write, when Robert Frost's poems fail to do the same? Why do I sing "With a little help from my friends" at a karaoke bar, or tap my feet to "Take a chance on me"? Why is it that the more we listen to their music, the more indelible our mental image, of these artists, becomes? The answer lies in the astonishing detail in every note, in every lyric, in every emotion.

The aforementioned "phase" is a time when all the emotions that an artist's song elicits somehow chimes with our own thoughts. And the artist's ability to express only highlights our own inability to do the same.



Its a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.

And you read your emily dickinson,
And I my robert frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what weve lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.

Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
Can analysis be worthwhile?
Is the theater really dead?
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
Youre a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.