A Tribute to Rhythm

by Christopher Herold

                      drumming

changes

           in the shape

                               of time

. . . so very thankful that, in leaving my drums behind, my soul; this rhythm, continues to ebb and flow in words.

From a very young age I listened to my great-grandfather, Artur Schnabel, play Beethoven and Schubert; then Bach and Brahms, Stravinski and Bartok . . .

        tympani thunder

            dissolves in a pool of cellos . . .

the oboe!

. . . later, learning the Blues from T-Bone and John Lee; Sunnyland Slim and the Wizard. “You got it in y’ boy and it got to come out, yes sir.” That’s what they told me, and I listened . . .

with his guitar

the suffering his words

only hinted at

. . . and we played and we played, from the Wild Northland to the Gulf of Mexico; from honky-tonks to the Hollywood Bowl, in sleazy clubs and at Carnegie Hall; weddings, frat parties; jam sessions, recording sessions—“All the lonely people . . .”: the lusty women, the hungry men; Hell’s Angels and Flower Children; “. . . where do they all come from?”

     making time

          in the chrome forest, stands

of cymbals and mics

     (to Mark Stein)

. . . leaving a legacy of rock ’n’ roll in the turbulence of our youth:

rural bar—

the art deco jukebox

spins our latest hit

But the price; there’s always a price. Today I wear microphones in my ears to remind me of the rain and the frogs; the sound of your voice . . .

in the garden

   straining to hear raindrops

                   burst on a stone

Those days of thunder are a faint echo. My wife and I, we’ve risen from the ashes . . . and we’ve grown into a family.

Christmas concert—

the maestro turns to find

a toddler’s awe

“Tubby the Tuba!?”

“for my daughter” I whisper

to the green-haired clerk

Our daughter is becoming a young lady; her thunder is the thunder of hooves . . . and she vaults, stretching her body to a “New Age” of music that drifts from Behind the Waterfall . . .

for melody

wind whistles to the rhythm

of cantering hooves

and the rhythm surges on; our lives an unending flux of polyrhythms . . .