sometimes it all falls into place: a thanksgiving poem

Sometimes it all falls into place: 
     the poets speak truth to power 
     and mystically raise the musicians up,
     the players in turn feed on this new found courage 
     and take bigger risks,
     and the audience pounds their feet and cry out in gratitude
     for a taste of what could be - and is - at least for a few minutes.

Sometimes it all falls into place:
     the riff you've practiced actually evokes funk - in high school kids - for god's sake
     the changes you studied flow from your fingers 
     and get some booties shakin'
          nobody in the band rushes - or lags - 
     and even the guest players
          recognize they too have a home in the groove.

Sometimes, not always, it all falls into place:
     you meet a poet from the weekend gig in a most unexpected place
     and she dances and waves
           and you feel a sense of safety that has been elusive too long.
     you feel loved. connected. like maybe you might actually finally
           belong.
     and you play better jazz because of it.

Sometimes it falls into place
     on the day before thanksgiving:
     with your loved ones traveling up from Brooklyn
     and all the groceries have been gathered,
     and the kitchen floor has finally been washed and waxed
          and the only thing left to do is feast.

Sometimes it all falls into place.

This wee poem bubbled up from below today after playing jazz at a high school in North Adams. And shopping for groceries. And cleaning the house. And reading this poem from one of my heroes: Joy Harjo. Happy Thanksgiving.

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.