In Rhythm's Grasp Poem by Severien Meyer

In Rhythm's Grasp



In Rhythm’s Grasp



I have never known
Lack of rhythm.

My parents knew from early on,
Seeing my need to spin
The tricycle pedal with my hand,
And hear the soothing
Di Di Di Di, Di Di Di Di, Dah
Of a perfectly paradiddled nine-count.

At three years of age came the paper
And tin-skinned drums from Woolworth’s.
Then, by five, the real
Lamb-skinned Slingerland Field Drum.

At last, the rhythmic demons
Thrumming from within,
Could now express themselves
Upon the tightened skin.

The memories of playing parade...
Two friends
With flag and plastic gun,
And I, with my real and precious drum...

And mates would say:
“Can I try your drum? ”
And I, with flustered ears allowed
The clamor that ensued.

After the neighborhood parade,
From my mother,
The expected question.
“Did you let another boy play your drum”?
She need not have even asked.
The a-rhythmic poundings of another
Had told the sounding tale.

Though years have passed,
With technique honed,
The incessant pinballs of rhythm
Continue their courses within.

I hear it in the ticking clock,
High heels echoing down the block,
In pop tunes blasting digitally,
In Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony.

The windshield wipers in the rain
Are my kick bass... in deep refrain.
I tap the dashboard, my snare and tom,
These rhythms just go on and on...

In rhythm’s grasp I live my life
With tapping foot and hand.
Hearing beats throughout the land...
This world’s indeed a marching band!

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