Drifting
by Odin Roark

To allow…

The Miles,
the Evens,
the Coltrane,
and Mozart
of your soul,
is to run free.

To allow…

Such experience to canvas your visions of sound,
shroud the deepest of depression,
bring forth the glory of a smile,
the norm of a 4-5-1 progression
twist up into a new tonal gravity of 2-5-1

To allow…

Is to find tomorrow's version,
the 21st century stroke
mixing with the many brush strokes of sound.
The Philip Glass,
the Sombient Collection,
the Avro Pärt wink at Botti's trumpet,
while Krall swoons a lyric,
and Clapton resurrects memories past,
Harold Budd saunters into a wispy alert
as John Adams cements his sound,
Mose Allison gets his licks.
Pat Metheny serenades unanimity,
while Pink Floyd bashes our senses,
Roger Eno lulls our anxiety,
and Schoenberg and Webern remain original.

How much of the humanness in music changes?

Is it not less change
and more embellishment
of the masters,
Bach,
Mendelssohn,
Bartok,
and Stravinsky?

After all, as humans
are we not merely harmonies of another kind
being discovered?

To allow…

Is to know how essential music is
to one's heart beat
to the metronome of one's attempt
to stay alive and relevant,
to close one’s eyes and hear
the echo of sustained notes drifting into endlessness.