Selected Works, Volume One On Sale
Jerry Prager, author of Legends of the Morgeti vol 1 &2 has published selections of poetry and prose from three of his previously published books, his blog The Well Versed Heart and unpublished works. On Sale at Macondo Books, the Bookshelf, in Guelph and the Eden Mills Writers Fest.
D'Etre Raisins

No sour grapes these,

rather the withered sweetness
of seasons lengthened
to aged fruition
chewed introspectively.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

I am resonant with lyric... (revised)


I am resonant with lyric...

I am resonant with lyric, a lifetime of song strung down the ages of my internal landscape signposted with rhyming couplets and musical passages that echo-find my way home: verses and choruses linking places and people: long lost, half-remembered, almost-forgotten friends lovers and acquaintances, the barely known, the fleeting few, the one night stands that never left the corners of thanks into which they crept: the heart sick hopes gone to seed, the deviations from the peers of my youth, the secret longings and desires, the confusions, denials, insights, affections and lusts sung imperfectly.

I am an oratorio of discordant fugues from an age of early abuse, stumbling towards spiritual reckoning, charted on scales by notations to self: heal and be healed, forgive and be forgiven. Adopted by mercy, I am confusion's child, come of age in a distempered time, both more and less than I could have been, hovering somewhere in the mid-distance of memory and outcome; a medley of all that came when fear first began to sing for its supper among the disappearing stars, in the days before the shadows fell and the darkness walked my dreams, when the thrumming of my blood twisted my guts beyond recognition and I became ashes translating flesh into dust, transposing wrongs into weary tunes laid to rest.

I am an identity crisis of confidence, broadcasting hypersensitivity to nuance and hurt, crowding the intimacy of others, because I am out of rhythm and rhyme, swept up in the crescendo of a desperate stand against falling worlds, one more David without a sling or a stone, a psalmist's heart in the path of giants, dancing in a loin cloth to a song only I hear, a clanging sword in my head, an incantation of doubt chanted against a day of faith.

I am the musical strains of an urban night's booze-can rock band driving home the bleak reality of humanity's common loneliness; I am the memory of loon orchestras and percussive campfires crackling naked in the rippling sunset waters swirling about my ears to the sounds of sinking Titanics and crying Kumbayas.

I am the companion of balladeers in a chamber of ghosts and in whose company I have no voice articulate enough to explain the oddities of the space in which I exist: I am a house party at dawn, the last bars in the last song of an encore, a sun rise walk on an empty beach, distillates of bird calls in the coming dawn of harms' way or help's rescue.
I am a whisper of singers aching the traces of weeping, strung-out like laundry on wonders.


I am the offspring of lyric fragments and broken melodies, brother to a hop, skip and a jump. I am married to a torch song and father of a roundelay. I am the do re me. You can be the fa so la ti, but only if you wanna be. Only if you wanna... 

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