He is a vessel.
Music spills out of him.
It pours out because it simply cannot stay inside.
The masses sing with him.
Oh, how they sing with him
and he dares them to sing louder.
He dares them because he knows they will join him.
“I can’t hear you!” He shouts from the stage.
And they respond to his call.
They all clap at the end.
Not because the performance was grand, but because they know,
they were a part of something.
Mixing negro spirituals with 1930s labor songs,
He asks “Where have all the flowers gone?”
and we have to wonder with him.
A brand of music so pure, the stately pines bow to it.
The plains stop and still.
The swamp hushes.
Oh, to have a heart like his.
A heart so ready to connect.
A voice so ready to sing in any man’s native tongue.
I miss you Pete.
Not like a widow misses a lover,
but like a musician misses another.