Poem by a Friend #2

by Tim Armacost

Swing is a miracle, like love.
Love doesn’t see color. Swing knows no creed.

My brother is in love with a Japanese woman.
I know a brother who married a white woman.

A young Tutsi man forgets to breath when he
Lays eyes on the most beautiful girl in the world,
A Hutu.

Hindus and Muslims, Israelis with Palestinians,
Sioux and Europeans – falling in love all over the place.

Love says. “I’ll give you bliss,
But if you two want happiness
You’re going to have to work for it.”

You can practice to swing, but you can’t practice
Swinging. You can prepare yourself for swinging.

The miracle of swing arises among human
Beings who are worthy. You can be worthy today,
And Tomorrow, not.

Did you learn anything about love reading
‘A Red, Red Rose’?
Did you know it after you heard
“Love is a Many Splendored Thing’?
Nah, you recognized love. You said to your self,

Oh, this is love.

Same with swing. Did you get it from listening to a record?
Did someone’s attempt to describe it get you any
You said, ‘oh, that’s what swing is,’ after you did it.

While you’re swinging – are you aware of
The color of the people who share that gift with you?
Shit, no.

Swing is not the same thing as love, but it’s pretty hard not to

Love the people you’ve done some swinging with.

Swing graces all styles. Swing doesn’t care if you
Play Avant Garde, R&B, Classical, Gamelan, or Swing Music.
Swing arises among human beings who love to play,

Rain falls on everyone’s head. Love knows no race.
Swing ignores creed. Death chuckles at our idea of Color.

No comments:

Post a Comment