Tom is 75 and gray now; still nimble-fingered,
And playing those intricate acoustic melodies
He invented way back in the 60s so well.
Of course, the longer we live, the more to tell;
But, also, the more perspective we have,
And the more appreciation for those we knew
Along the way…
So the stories get richer.
He talks about his Muse a couple of times;
And his stage presence as a story-teller
Has only gotten better.
He says a poet never knows how or when
The Muse will appear,
But must never ignore her timing or material;
Whatever comes must be acknowledged…
Just bring it in and accept it with open arms.
People may not like it, it may not sound good, but,
That's the nature of the Muse…
Not everything is great.
One night, he says, he's falling off to dreamland,
And his Muse nudges him awake.
"Aw, not now, " he complains;
"But this is good, " says she.
"But, I'm so tired tonight…"
"You've got to write this down, " she insists.
"I'll do it first thing in the morning… I'll remember…
Just give me a key word or two."
"All right, then, " says his Muse,
"I'll go find James Taylor and give it to him."
"Okay, I'm up! I'm awake! " exclaims Tom,
Throwing his legs over the edge of the bed,
And reaching for pen and paper.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem