Symphony of the Phony Little Man

It is not the musician
but the poet who is fortunate

the bright flare of trumpet that flitters along the melody
is only a  vague metaphor for the  deafening  squeal of  the right verb
detonating

a solo phrase,
before the chorus of nouns
thoughts contrasted,

painted in adjectives and linebreaks

fused with form,
then formless.
re-formed
reformed.

The clarinet can not reed
these notes - of man, wood,
wind and silence.

the brash of brash alludes,
but can not speak the tones of these lyrics.

The real music is always in the ideas, and while those feelings
reverberate between the  gliss and snarl, atop the growl and groan,
beside hum and wistful whistle - it is the music of the mind that endures.

Do not pity the poets,
their instruments are just as loud and varied
each of them is an orchestra of one.

Fondly,

Your friend.