On Jerry Garcia's Birthday
On such a planet
my foot got born
in such rooms
the bones become tone.
Dust lingers in champagne.
Towns hobble through age.
Rise now above it.
Raise your face to the sun.
Sway now, pick your rhythm of business.
The tired microphone just overcame all attempts of pain.
When you step out for your dance,
when you take the world by the hand for this
one last dance,
recall the long night cadence,
address all epiphany SASE
On his dancefloor
I raise my sky.
There is banjo picking
in all Third Eyes.
---Scott Wannberg
Poem for Jerry Goldsmith
Going down the Rio Conchos aboard the San Pablo,
no Flim Flam men in sight, yet...Patton whispered
Lonely Are the Brave, but we left him on one of those
Islands in the Stream...After you take a hard ride you'll
be in like flint...
All those rooms, all those worlds and feelings,
all those Cable Hogues and their Ballads,
grace, empathy, resonance, these are
the rooms Jerry Goldsmith builds,
and, at the Hour of the Gun, we rise above
those 100 Rifles and find clarity and
exploration in the accessible imagination
dancefloor Jerry Goldsmith painted.
Rest in peace. All music notes do know how to hum this
one well.
---Scott Wannberg
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