[Untitled]

And the Archangel Michael blew loud

the trumpet of God, to raise first the dead in the end times;

and the children of Israel encircling Jericho, seven days,

the rams’ horns blaring and the walls came tumbling down.

But I have no such Biblical aspirations, content to play my old horn,

a joyful noise from youthful days, some old songs and hymns,

something new, not played well, but well enough, perhaps,

to calm my own savage breast in these days of chaos and trouble,

restless and weary, finding again the peace of music still playing

in a heart and soul in need of soothing, in need of peace.