Dug Folk Fest 26 #1

hard banjo
smooth
old finger picked guitar
steel  National
gravel voices
old songs

George in the hospital

At ninety-eight,

the years are a blurred map,

except for this:

the sharp, clear grief of a son’s funeral

and the way the Mendelssohn rose

to meet the rafters.

His hand lifts—

a slow, ghost-weight motion

cutting through the heavy air of the room.

He is conducting the shadows now,

guiding a choir only he can hear,

every finger an instrument of memory.

He pays attention to the phrasing,

the swell of the alto,

the steady pulse of the bass.

He is practicing for his entrance.

The score is almost finished.

He is smoothing his lapel,

steadying his breath,

ready to step onto the riser

and find his place

between his wife and his son.

Christopher Paul Stelling at Spruce Hollow (Folk Fest '25 #1)

down on his luck 

wearing black with his trusty guitar 

and sawdust voice

dark hair and unshaven face

singing about life and love 

so happy to be here performing 

for this northern audience that loves him 

this is therapy 

this is a balm for us and him down on his luck

Lucinda Williams (Folk Fest '24 poem #3)

she leans on the mic stand 

this woman who has endured so much 

and has little of her volcanic presence left 

still has that sandstorm voice 

and a loyal band that follows her anywhere 

as she sings you took my joy 

spitting nails in the air 

anger so hot like lava flowing from the stage 

this woman

winter 2023

it seems  like 

winter is catching on

snow piling up 

I don’t think this will melt now 

it’s here to stay 

through November and December 

right to March or April 

spring so far away 

but we can still sing solstice 

and Christmas 

and new year 

and heart day 

and the feast of St. Patrick 

voices tuned together 

for survival 

like kindling catching flame

 

Vance Joy life surfer (folk fest '23 #2)

you like this 

upbeat smile 

ukulele vibe 

surfboard freedom 

singing love and adventure

in this tough tough world 

making it better one wave after another 

this likes you 

 

Fleet Foxes (folkfest '23 poem #1)

abstract videos like hospital wall art

play behind you on 

that large stage 

after the storm and 

you fling your butterfly harmonies 

out into the tarpy crowd 

song after song of vocal variation 

that rests on bruised souls 

like a multi-coloured monarch 

that has winged one thousand miles 

to be here resting so lightly 

a certain healing can occur 

and we can leave the hospital bed 

in our teeming minds 

 

clinging

what is this pensiveness 

low strings agitated almost dissonant 

almost unrhythmic 

a serious chanting of sorrow 

in this heated June filled with thunder 

what is this prevailing pall 

over all we do 

soft choral voices breaking through in 

broken harmonies 

so hard to cling 

to bright clean hope

on the funeral of Elizabeth II

it’s not really the long processional 

nor the bagpipe’s lament

it’s not really the resplendent cathedral

nor the flag-draped lead-lined coffin

it’s not really the red robed men

nor the accented readings

it’s actually the boys choir 

    voices pure 

    rising into ether 

    resonating off arches 

harmonies spinning overtones 

    linking to our hearts 

    and sending her soul home 

 

Tall Tall Trees at Snowberry (Folk Fest '22 poem #5)

July sun drenches heat at snowberry field 

beard and banjo 

but no trees 

just wires and foot pedals and speakers 

like a scientist experimenting sounds together 

rhythms so rooted 

harmony so heightened 

lyrics branched out 

melodies green leaves so intricate 

this music reaching for the sun 

Leith Ross sings Grief (Folk Fest '22 poem #3)

Hannah was 

twenty-two 

someone who loved 

red rose love touching 

so many 

and we sit in the heat 

of her loss 

and her mother’s agony 

while Leith sings 

strawberry sweet voice 

settling on souls 

about 

twenty-two

what is grief at that age 

yet we receive 

this gift as balm 

as soothing cool shade 

as tears roll down

Judy Collins sings Both Sides Now (Folk Fest '22 poem #2)

silver iridescent warmth seems 

to spread out from her dress as 

she begins to strum twelve string and sing

rows and flows of angel hair 

phrasing at 83 impeccable 

tuning perfect and 

I hear with my heart tuned 

this is what we’ve missed 

singer warming hearts 

with silvery  

voice and 

a song that doesn’t get old

Ocie Elliot (Folk Fest '22 poem #1)

snow slowly drifts from poplars 

at big bluestem 

and I’m alone in the throng hearing you for the first time 

so gentle 

so in tune 

so summer snow 

so almost not there 

and yet powerfully present with each other 

and the grass and sky and poplar snow

sing summer songs of love

the art of the fugue

brittle branches fight

the moisture from within so

buds can come about

in the rifted rock

grand children’s love billows 

through iPhone speakers 

a sung embrace of closeness 

mother daughter hands clenched on lap 

failing ears can just make it out 

this song for the ages aged 

seeking rest from care and pain and turmoil 

my moist eyes lower to the floor 

where slippered foot taps the beat

 

spring song

sometimes spring 

onsets without much warning 

sun suddenly warm 

like Mozart after Mussorgski 

and the melt begins 

icy eyelashes blink into blue sky 

warming air caresses new born skin 

and there’s a blue jay in the tree 

learning an aria 

from The Magic Flute

there is nothing like a choir

there is nothing like a choir 

a kind of confluence of rivers 

    of blueish thought 

    reddish feeling 

    greenish beauty  

    yellowish freedom and 

    purplish imperfection 

flowing together as love

lasting a moment and forever 

in the universe of this space and time 

a kind of lifting 

    of the heaviness 

    to the heavens 

that can’t happen with one 

or even five 

or with a cast of superheroes 

a kind of graduation dance 

    fills a room with light 

    from the twirls 

of accomplishment 

and possibility 

a kind of window 

into the heart of God

aftermath

in the after storm time 

this bright chill 

deceptive calm 

but just as deadly 

for the straight tone 

loneliness 

enters the bones 

of the soul 

and the drifted snow 

invades and deadens 

cracks in the ribcage 

of feeling 

but listen to the 

voice of praise 

create a quinzy 

in the quiet snow 

a dome of 

shelter 

in this harsh life 

of fury and freeze

 

snow storm

heart drifts enlarge 

tiny pellets pelt 

    felt fiercely 

like stark open chords blowing 

    through window gaps 

gathering gusts of grief 

that only the magic of 

warm held hands can melt 

earth vespers

feel the song coming from deep below 

of fear and grief 

bass notes shaking 

    shuddering 

        rising 

            intense 

feel it in our bodies 

so full of anxiety 

wanting to hope in the

hopelessness of rising seas & 

    rising flames & 

        rising floods & 

            rising heat shimmers & 

                rising fumes from burning oil 

feel it coming from above 

from voices who have gone before 

see this blue green home & 

sing along