With sounds that
I can only describe
As soaring.
You elevated me
Above all my mourning.
– Vagabond Prophet
Original Poetry about anything and everything.
With sounds that
I can only describe
As soaring.
You elevated me
Above all my mourning.
– Vagabond Prophet
If I could beat a drum
By just thinking
I’d be marching to a different beat.
And if I could sound off a riff
Just by skipping a step
I’d solo down the street.
If I could hum
And have cellos sing
I’d waltz everywhere.
Then I met you,
Like instruments unknown
Your sound and presence baffling.
Beyond imagination
Or composition of will,
Ode to Heaven itself.
– Vagabond Prophet
If I could beat a drum
By just thinking
I’d be marching to a different beat.
And if I could sound off a riff
Just by skipping a step
I’d solo down the street.
If I could hum
And have cellos sing
I’d waltz everywhere.
Then I met you,
Like instruments unknown
Your sound and presence baffling.
Beyond imagination
Or composition of will,
Ode to Heaven itself.
– Vagabond Prophet
I need more musicI’ve got rhythm in my veins
And a heart that pumps
Not blood but a beat.
To create something
To be consumed by the ears,
To bring into life
Meaningful sound.
My heart beats
In polyrhythms,
And my feet journey
To find the melody.
So you be the woodwinds
And I’ll be the strings,
I’ll learn you first by ear,
And then by heart.
– Vagabond Prophet
I need more music
I’ve got rhythm in my veins
And a heart that pumps
Not blood but a beat.
To create something
To be consumed by the ears,
To bring into life
Meaningful sound.
My heart beats
In polyrhythms,
And my feet journey
To find the melody.
So you be the woodwinds
And I’ll be the strings,
I’ll learn you first by ear,
And then by heart.
– Vagabond Prophet
I miss my drums
They were named Gary,
Shells made of birch
In hues of cherry.
Then there was Gorbachev
The black one,
All I’m thinking now
Is how I’d like to smack one.
– Vagabond Prophet
I miss my drums
They were named Gary,
Shells made of birch
In hues of cherry.
Then there was Gorbachev
The black one,
All I’m thinking now
Is how I’d like to smack one.
– Vagabond Prophet
I miss my drums
They were named Gary,
Shells made of birch
In hues of cherry.
Then there was Gorbachev
The black one,
All I’m thinking now
Is how I’d like to smack one.
– Vagabond Prophet