The Secret to a Good Song
Updated: Jul 14, 2020
Kris Kristofferson once said; “The secret to a good song is three chords and the truth.” Now that’s profound. I learn daily how truly simple it is to live creatively and yet how impossibly complicated I tend to make it.
I try not to overthink things but, seriously, it’s really easy to fall in love with the idea that creating is mystical. It’s not, trust me. There is something to be said for just showing up and trusting ‘three chords and the truth’.
I’ve added a poem I wrote. I hope you enjoy this one. If you don’t understand it, that’s okay…it’s a poem. You’re not really supposed to get it.
The Sexes or Let’s Dance
In a dance at the wedding of friends, my husband of twenty-six years at the time, tried to teach me how to cut a rug smoothly, so as not to leave any ragged edges—the mark of his generation.
One hand lightly on my hip—the other cupping my hand,
whirling me—dipping me down ‘til my blue dress brushed the floor and my yellow hair caressed his cheek as he pulled me to himself—reading my moves— looking me in the eyes and in one fluid movement beautifully swaying and spinning his love into our steps.
As sexes we ‘the created’ are a contradiction, at once fierce for individualism, and yet hopeful for oneness, groping for the human essence that makes us more than animals, but a little lower than the angels—divine and divined.
A desert born of drought, the surface of our gendered lives is so parched we are become waterproof, so that rain might even do us harm causing dangerous flash floods.
Desperate, we send for the water witch. As she shakes a rattle at the sky, her stick is pulled like a magnet to the sustenance of life drawn down to the deep source of springs. “Dig here!” she cries.
Shovels become extensions of arms as we frantically dig like wiener dogs, maniacally snorting—plowing—furrowing, the object of our need unreachable but sensed. How did we become so bereft?
Suddenly I see my Hullabaloo past like a misty dream. Hip huggers—go-go boots—the twist—the swim—the skate. I see a verdant landscape that slowly becomes a wasteland, and though I know it’s not the cause of all missteps as lovers and friends, I mourn the day we stopped touching when we dance.