All it takes is one little word,
To crop up in conversation,
And suddenly my mother believes,
That she is a singing sensation.
But! She sings several octaves higher,
Than the artist of the song,
In a barely recognisable tune,
Plus, the lyrics are always wrong.
Well it didn’t take long at all
Before I would break into a song!
Luckily I know my lyrics,
So at least I don’t get those wrong.
Mother sings often,
Spirit as high as her key!
It is contagious.
In response to the fifteenth “bad habits” prompt from NaPoWriMo.net
Pursuit of Bold Dreams
A warm husky voice calms me,
Brings me memories captured in resin.
Nostalgia engulfs me,
And carries a worthy lesson.
Pursuit of a dream
Takes effort, with no bounds,
A furious rhythm foists me to seek,
To search, to pine, for bold sounds.
My tangled earphones surround me,
Reminding me of soft childhood tunes,
But we must leap over stepping stones,
Exploring far from the banks,
Even on rainy afternoons.
In response to the tenth “junk drawer song” prompt from NaPoWriMo.net
Instructions can be found here.
My chosen song was Hugh Harris’ Rhythm of Life, and my junk drawer contained: wires; shells encased in resin; old music devices; and a ring pouch.
An innocent child sings
A soft, sweet song.
Not in tune, no rhythm.
But it doesn’t sound wrong.
When she grows,
Those notes are polished.
But truth demolished.
A virtual choir is advertised,
Impulsively she participates.
To distract the mind from fear.
At first, she celebrates.
She gleams with positivity,
Optimism, and pride.
But then it’s time to record,
With nobody by her side.
The pressure builds.
The notes wobble.
Her pitch wanders.
But then her solo,
Becomes part of a chorus.
A community of singers.
Magical for all of us.