"For the blessings of the trumpet we thank you"    though

one poor soul I know

paid a heavy price for a shabby paradise.

Centuries of breath laced with the fairy brew

downed in stinking and unholy bars

gave him the spine,  and when

the baton demanded a steady eye

and ear he could supply the goods.

Punctuating the racing dots

on the changing sky of manuscript

shooting as if with shotgun those errant crotchets

out of the clouds of mood moments

he had the inclination in buckets*

and other mutes or open

to the master sunburst of sound before they hit the ground.

 

But in the blast furnace that produced all this,

a strange flame began to burn,

blotting out reason such

that he became like the Hindenburg

out of control,

taking dreams and trust under his good arm

where'er he fancied, on the roller coaster ride

to a residential home

where constrained, his talent reined

in, he produced graffiti across the walls

like the music sky he would so often read

and tried to reclaim sanity.

such is the gravity of musical sense.

Kindly souls visited, he spat out venom

wreaked his shapeless vengeance

on the world that contained him.

 

Finally he passed his final test, no coda

pressed upon his chest.

Boarded up and lowered down

the artistry of the shovel put his legacy to rest

no longer trumpet blessed.