-- Harmonica with Soul --

By John Herlihy

He held an old, worn--out harmonica in his rough hand,

Kept in a duster pocket, to play music at his command.

To breathe out music that rises and floats gently aloft,

Then settles down on the tree limbs and leaves so soft.

To draw still treasured melodies from his sensitive soul,

The emotions – joys and sorrows – that he from life stole.

He looked it over, as if remembering some long lost friend,

Such happy and sad memories will stay with him to the end.

Then raises the beloved instrument to his puckered lips,

To drink from the silver chalice of music with tender sips.

Sober notes flew forth from the depths of his solitude,

Like timid birds greeting the dawn light in all its quietude.

In going about his business, he was just another anybody,

But when he played his harmonica, he become somebody.

Someone who sees light when all others see only shadows,

Who searches storms clouds to find emerging rainbows.

Out of a profound silence, a sound of rushing filled the air,

A cry of joy, a wail of sadness, finally turning into a prayer.

If the music had words, they’d be written in calligraphy,

Echoing notes as beautiful letters relating such mystery.

Melancholy music made with wind of breath into a moan,

Reaching depths of heaven and earth to melt a heart of stone.

Silence once again, with the quiet air waiting to be filled,

The harmonica back in a duster pocket, its own heart stilled.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Sunday 14 May 2023