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SONG FOR JOHN MARK

What a lovely lad you are,
Fairest of them all, by far!
Shining like a morning star
That fades too soon from view.
Swept you through this country town,
With your dark hair hanging down,
And gained some measure of renown,
Though never sought by you.

Many here are glad you came.
They know you not, but know your name,
And in your absence grows your fame,
Awaiting your return.
Lest your reputation wane,
With admiration unrestrained,
I am keeper of the flame,
And I shall let it burn.

When I hear your lyric rhyme
I am transported back in time
To when my star began to shine
And all the hopes of youth were mine.
As into a looking glass
I look at you, and see my past,
And I must come to terms, at last,
With how the years go by so fast.

Sing another song, John Mark!
Sweetly as a meadowlark!
Sing it to me from the heart!
Sing another song, John Mark!

When I hear you sweetly sing
And hear you make a guitar ring,
I want to share so many things
And take you under my own wing,
Because there are so very few
Who can do the things you do,
And the world may laugh at you.
They always laugh at what seems new.

How ironic life can be!
What is done by you and me
Is a form of artistry
Dating to antiquity.
We are new, but we are old.
We cannot be bought or sold,
Writing not for fame or gold,
Writing when the muse takes hold.

The muse comes as a bird at night.
Pausing briefly in her flight,
She beckons us to such a height
As we will let her take us.
To hesitate, to say we might,
Makes her disappear from sight,
Gone before the morning light
And tempted to forsake us.

Take it from a bard who knows:
You must follow where she goes,
Thankful it is you she chose
To tell her secrets to.
The poet plays a leading part.
There is no higher form of art.
Never doubt this in your heart.
Believe in what you do.

And sing another song, John Mark!
Sweetly as a meadowlark!
Sing it to me from the heart!
Sing another song, John Mark!

Saranac Lake, New York, 1996