Volaar19 March 2010 at 3:46amPosts: 1 (0 today)Status: offline
.a grandfather - once, maybe twice - sits beneath a tree aside the cacophony of a Summer block party in a Philly suburb. Children running and playing across the yards that once were shared - then bought - so what once grew life and things green and juicy to the touch now stored things long dead and consumed, used up, and put in boxes all in a row.
Yet beneath this tree sits a noble grandfather in his hat and a twelve string tuned down to C. One or two of the children sits at his feet to watch grandpa play and sing, but what comes out is a piece of history about a black man from the mother country of South Africa. The real mother country, not the indo-european roots from which everyone in Philly insists is their mother, but the one, true mother that held us all in her arms so selflessly and warmly for so many years while our parents warned us to stay away, to stand aside. Beneath that tree at the knee of Grandfather, a rhythm as old as the indigenous Lakota leaps out of the moment and grabs the attention of the children as they learn of things not taught in their ticky-tacky little play school at the ministry of conformity.
This is Paul Simon's groove carved in the moment beneath a tree that grew for a century that it might bring shade and notice to this moment from a Summer in Philadelphia.
DoseOfFudge20 March 2010 at 12:58pmPosts: 18 (0 today)Status: offline
Very poetic and true.
Thanks for your opinion.
sapling20 March 2010 at 8:21pmPosts: 896 (0 today)Status: offline