I’m the voice
and not the song
I am the voice
now listen on
I’m the choice
and not the wrong
don’t you linger
like a tantrum son
I’m the voice
and not the song
I call you all
with mantra gong
I’m the wind
that batters on
no crown of singers
ambling gone
I’m the voice
and not the song
and now rejoice
I have this voice
and I am
strong.
All hear the Bellowhead
Sucking us in - like fireflies
Circling end of summer sigh
From young bucks leap
O’er old man’s grimace grey.
Like madrigal birds at dusk -
On accordion breath that heaves,
With fiddling sentry’s hotfoot dance
To circus lights and roguery.
Let it blow like Bucovina brass
And let us show our red flamed hair,
Then know this copper breeze
That hails a bellowed call
Of grand traditions,
In the air.
Let me think …
Is it almonds, butterscotch?
or chocolate coated marzipan?
It could be caramel even,
but it’s duskier than that.
Powdery, like sun dried sheets
or bathwater patchouli.
And then there’s citrus too,
(but not too perky)
like mulled wine
or lemon grove dew
in the morning.
All are scent of you.