The Music of Tears

I remember it like yesterday.

Packed into the high school gym, staring with hundreds of other students at the symphony orchestra sitting silent in the center of the floor.

A special assembly, an introduction to classical music by the Seattle Symphony Orchestra.

The principal stepped to the microphone. We hushed. He paused, let his eyes wander over the young faces whose minds were mostly somewhere else.

He spoke, “yesterday, we lost a beloved friend and teacher.”

He briefly described how an older English teacher, a fixture at the school for generations, had suddenly passed away.

We bowed our heads for a moment of prayer. Then the principal introduced the conductor.

Milton Katims, a renowned musician and a wise, compassionate man, dedicated the opening piece to the memory of our lost teacher. He raised his baton and the tribute began.

There was a strange quiet in the gym. Strange because a thousand high school kids were speechless. 

Samuel barber’s “Adagio for Strings” starts softly, with violins, violas, Cellos, and basses blending delicate harmonies around a simple theme.

I looked around. All eyes were riveted on the musicians birthing the beautiful sounds.

Sounds that crescendoed, louder and louder,  to a final climax of heavenly ecstasy. Then,

silence.

I remember it like yesterday.

Stunned.

Crying.

Blissed by the music of tears.


tio stib


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The Campfire

a lone form sits
in front of fire
a sacred glow
on sea of black

as sparks rise
to eternity
I warm my hands
cold nips my back

giant shadows shelter me
dark branches reach for stars
I shiver
then look out again
as time swims into hours

a tiny speck of being I am
no more no less than all
alone
yet somehow one
I know the peace of home

a hint of bright appears beyond
a light begins to grow
moon man crawls up into night
revealing worlds below

in silent silver majesty
on every hill I see
the silhouettes of noble elk
taking midnight tea

the curtain lifts
strange voices shriek
a thousand years unfold
as Nature’s unseen opera shouts
to spirits now and old

with these wild
coyote swoons
I watch Man’s dreams
fly past the moon

Tio Stib, 2015

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Tags: Nature, campfire, Tio Stib, blind poet, blind writer, poetry, solitude, traveling, wildness,
wilderness, Oneness, moonrise, wonder, peace, home, tranquility

Tio Stib, 2015

You might also enjoy: Imagine Water, Dead Horse Point