Chords still play for Jackaroo- A poem by Emma

 

Chords still play for Jackaroo;


Though interplanetary fortitude,
Is no consequence of this corral of men,
Who bade goodnight in soft acoustic, as a Carolina wren
Blew smoky harmonies across the glen-
Bidding him fortuity for winter once again.

Now the surliness had left the eyes of every farmhand here,
As they slumped about the fireside, their facelines glinted tears-
Brooding over eerie chimney drifts,
Condemning the irreverence of the European swift,
Who particularly loudly perched November's graveyard shift.

Except,
Perhaps, it's cry sent thrice
Reached Jackaroo, who was enticed
To then postpone his dancing on the stars and suns and spice-
To recur within the cornfield, come to counteract their vice.

By now the anguished farmers with the moonlight overhead
Had sought to drown what they heard as the cry of living dead.
But Jackaroo still laughing flew across the field with mirth,
And passed right through the fire that had blasted him from Earth.

He sucked the bagpipe's wind out, knowing no reason to mourn,
And his trumpets played triumphantly to render him reborn.
The casks of stillborn grape juice playing three sheets to the wind
Broke apart and took off dancing to rejoice the Christ within.

While the Salmonberry Smokehouse will forever be in flames
And the season of Remembering laments a life once claimed,
Jackaroo will still implore you, play no melancholy song,
For as long as flames spit ember, he'll have stars to race along.