(12/11/60 / Danbury, CT USA)


I speak, you speak, we speak drum - on Sundays in the park, beside the roses.
People passing speak back, first with eyes of wanting, yet fear of entering the universal circle of language without syllables, without dictation of meters or rhymes, pushes them further away.

Some pause, some enter, inch closer then choose, then hold, then rub rhythm sticks,
then shake, then tap tambourine, Maracas, frame drums, Egyptian Riqq, Tar Drum, the Bodhran, congas, timbales, bongos, djembe, dun dun, balafon, timpani, snare, didgeridoo, beatbox the voicebox and then even you speak drum in many tongues -

Latin, Indian, African, Japanese, Fusion, Anglo
The harmonies open wide, the hands move wildly, faster and faster
melody is woven even in these broken beats.

The drumspeak is the heartbeat native in every soul;
our tonal communication is won as one.

© Reneé Marie 5.08

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