Harmonica Poem by Mark Swaine

Harmonica got soul,
She’s the slim shiny black lady
Dancing in the dark near the dusty brick wall,
Swaying in her own space,
Feeling the music,
Her slim gentle figure makes her shadow
Look menacing and tall.

She likes the rough with the smooth live voice,
Soul sister squeezes with ease,
Slowly through the crowd,
To get a closer look at the unknown legend
Living his little paid gig out loud.
Guitar unplugged,
Drawing passion from the crowd,
He’s finding it hard to control,
The adrenaline craze.
Wiping his forehead before they applaud,
When the lights fade,
He prays he kept the connection,
To Harmonica with the braids.

The entire underground club
Is dancing with love
If you rise above
Unknown jazz bands play
In every little hidden pub.
Harmonica’s the passing secret,
Of the papers blowing in the back streets,
She talks to the sane,
The witches, the rain,
And hangs with the freaks.

The lady of New Orleans,
Portrays every true story,
He didn’t ask for fortune,
She had it waiting for him.

She walked him miles blind into the mist,
Never losing sight of her eyes,
She never let go of his wrist.
Dots of light led the way for fireflies flew,
She took him to a place they could chill,
Drunk with warmth and whiskey,
Safe and sound,
Sleepin' in a bijou.

Old men and women get respected
For still being just as young in the mind,
For this is the place where no grandfather clock,
Could ever change the time.
Still in the times when everything,
Was so slowly sung,
And you could hear everything,
Past the tip of a tongue.

Cool south legends from Carolina,
Couldn’t perform any finer.
Harmonica brought it walking,
Past the Mississippi river.
She’s the passing steamboat, crashing water,
And the mystical feeling from a voodoo shiver.

She’s the mad heart of the Mardi gras,
Slowly passing down the narrow street,
She’s a celebration of life,
That source of all heat.
She’s the passion in the open,
Which brings the fresh but strangely humid air,
She’s the bats in the vineyard,
She’s the spider in your hair.

Harmonica plays in forever festivals.
She’s the one destroying diva,
Slowly rising from a county of cultural fever.
Her eye’s are stars and mystic,
Loving life in dark enchantment,
Happy as a misfit.