the poetry of Charles Fry

17 June 1995

the Soul queen

she lifts her hands
back to the keys
willing each withered finger to softly play.
Grandmother of the organ we call her
though no one knows where she really came from.
and the empty block in the middle of skyscrapers --
we aren't sure how she got it or kept it so simple.
(i guess the grass just grew to match the
beauty of her snowy hair.)
the Man keeps tryin to buy her out
or at least get a side walk around the edges;
yet through some strength she maintains.
the children love to come and roll in the fresh grass,
to run and play free from the muddled world.
(why so many leave as they grow
can only be attributed to the new shatter proof rocking chairs.)
but every day some more sober wanderers -- searchers --
come stand on the curb to listen.
to listen to Beautiful Oldandordinary rocking slowly back and forth
softly playing the organ with all her soul.

Copyright © 1995 Charles Fry