A Poem from Andre

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I usually get good reviews from critics, and wonderful from friends and fans, but it isn't often I get a poem, written for me. Well, I sometimes receive poems, but they're not quite up to par on the poetry scale. This one is an exception.

It was written by and sent to me from Andre Feriantenew window

I'm deeply touched and honored to receive this tribute. Andre is a magnificent guitarist, composer, and musician.


With one hand she cupped an unearthly drumming of thunder,
with the other she suspended a nomadic array of red feathers,
as the storm raged the feathers levitated and plummeted into the
pink bliss of our minds.

With one hand she pleaded with the sun for fire and honor,
with the other she calibrated the music of human loneliness,
as this measure frayed leftover clouds began to swell, overwhelming
the walls of our frail hearts.

With one finger she reached out and drew a parameter around
the collective of our dreams, as the music undressed itself, layer
after layer, we followed, transfixed and softened by the triste and
the forte.

As she played a piercing high note high above the parameter
of our longing, a small white flower began to grow, with each
repetition of the note the flower grew until it reached the roots
of the music.

And we the children of no resolve began to dance, reaching blindly
for fireflies, for the illusive flames of knowledge, she extended
both hands to us, her wrists, the tendons of piano strings,
her palms, the zebra print of keys, the music never stopped.

Even after we closed our eyes and the bodies of our eyes it
carried on like little rivers on our sidewalks and our walls,
it continued on to seat itself on the broken thrones of our brains,
a tempest of harmony patching the holes in the tattered places
of our days.

by Andre Feriante 10/17/08, a tribute to Jessica Williams