Diapason Poem by Joseph S. Josephides

They think you are dead. Do they hear?
In the Auditorium of memorials I hear
harmonica, guitar in your hands
you lifting up the piano,
at a heavens scale of sol;
you transform a harp into a rainbow,
a paper into a pista for the notes to dance.

One said: I feel pity for the dead ones.
I reply: the dark frightens the children;
but it dosn’t dare to come in at all,
when you calm the blizzard of our land.

You, musician brave, get up from the grave,
we celebrate, we dance, do rise and come
to sing, dressed in royal purple clothes,
to chant, with chords and music instruments,
your mustache to vibrate the diapason fork.


© JosephJosephides