Peter Kilbryde. Not just a poet, but a bittersweet poem in and of himself. I am honored to have been featured in his work. I didn’t share this with the world when he wrote this for me back in 2013, in part because I was so humbled by it, so I decided to keep it to myself. To be honest, I feel a bit strange sharing this, but the words are too beautiful not to share. Rest in peace, Irishman. I hope you found what you were looking for.
I get tongue-tied when I draw near her. Hero-worship. Unusual for me. But her voice…. beyond compare the most freely ranging range of pitch and colour. Soars and plumbs the deeps with equal ease.
I believe her to be shy at heart. Poignant to observe her screw herself up for a gig. Scarlet rashes suddenly show on her bosom and neck. In Ireland such a red bloom is a token of divine inspiration.
Then the Spirits visit and sing out.
Such a voyager to the slopes of Parnassus incurs risk in the natural course of things. Don´t travel from Death Valley to Sweet Mountain High without a toll.
Strong drink, sweet Mezcal; stronger powders of liberation from being tongue-tied, can pose a threat to the chosen of the Muses. May Love always hold her in the palm of Her hand.
She walks the talk. And the Devil at the Crossroad will demand his due. Though for Mercedes… [No, I am not a car.) … I believe even that one would understand which side his bread is buttered on. Don´t hurt the Goose that lays the golden egg.
And she being free of petty ego; no vain glorying; she knows full well it is not tiny her that is belting out the blues.
You can hear the chain gang clang. Sing-song- ebony chant wailing to the very bone.
So have I declared love for her? No: instead I worship the ground on which me own true love do stand and whence she sings.
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