THE GIFT OF FIRE

The guitars that were objects of contention

when we split, they have burned.

Prematurely perhaps in that they

had a lot of music left in them.

But they ran out of time.

In some mysterious way they had completed

their life work, accompanying my sorrow

through years of darkness,

my joy through moments of light,

as my witness to bands of brothers and sisters

who shared the groove of compassion and joy

and anger and loss, whose energy I miss.

Every night we’d break it down like Sly Stone

to give each player their moment.

For some of us if you took it away – the groove –

we would have nothing to live for.

Northridge

6/22/25