First, you bow – And if you don’t
The world won’t sing itself, it won’t
‘Cause if you’re doing all the talking
Like some guy like Stephen Hawking
You will miss the wedded notes –
The sounds from the angelic throats
It won’t mean anything at all
Without the swing.
But bowing goes against our bent
We’re fallen now – we’ve gone and went
Our own way, by our own direction,
Our hearts and brains are all a-scramble
We’ve cooked our goose, our spirits ramble
And haunt the world instead of sing.
Leslie Hidley has been writing prose and poetry for her own amusement and that of her family and friends and others for most of her 73 years. And one of her ten grandchildren is named Kalliope. She has lived in Walla Walla, Washington; Frankfurt and Bremerhaven, Germany; Upper New York State; Enid, Oklahoma; Montgomery and Prattville, Alabama; Lubbock, Texas; Dover, Delaware; West Palm Beach, Florida; Goose Bay, Labrador; Washington, D.C.; Fairfield, California; Omaha, Nebraska; and now resides in Ojai (Nest-of-the-Moon), California, where she continues to write.