Musical Mystique

The music is calling, and I must go

to play the emotion of each note.

From soaring legato

melodies

to the rendering of tight

harmonies

the music bends

and twists

and rolls

as it sweetly speaks

to a place in your soul.

Transcending barriers of language and text

it is music that calls beyond its own context

and takes the listener deep inside

to the place where all emotions abide.

Sometimes brassy and outright bold,

other times, it is smooth like a river of gold.

It echoes, crescendos, dips, and lifts

as the Musician gives each note, the gifts

of feeling and expression,

music speaks to the heart

which surpasses its stark manuscript,

the mystique of musical art.

- T. Deffely

02 January 2020

Are You Ready?

Oh the shout it came from Heaven 
and the trumpet blast was loud.
The Saints were all a'rising 
who once were buried in the ground.
I met Jesus in the clouds 
and we walked along the way.
Saints we must be ready 
when His shout comes on That Day.
Oh you gotta get ready
Won't you all be ready?
Our Lord is coming soon
could be mornin', night or noon.
You must call upon His name
He'll meet you where you are.
Friend you must be ready 
when it's time to cross that bar.
Saints you gotta get ready
I must be ready
The shout will come
the trumpet sound
the dead will rise from the ground.
This mortal life will be over 
the imperishable will begin.
It's time to go to Heaven 
and forever we'll praise Him.
Have you repented?
And are you forgiven?
If you've called on Him
turned away from sin
Then He's covered you with His blood.
Are you ready?
Dear friend you gotta be ready.
Saints you must be ready
when Jesus comes That Day.
Because...
the shout will come from Heaven
and the trumpet blast will be loud.
The Saints will all be risin'
who once were buried in the ground.
And we'll meet Jesus in the clouds
and we'll walk along the way.
Saints you must be ready 
when God's shout comes on That Day.

The Trombone Ballad of Mama Dear

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
the trombone ballad of my Mama Dear.
On October 28, 1945,
she oiled, greased, and prepared to slide
into seventh position, a very long stretch.,
Could this ten year old make it?
Of course!
You bet!
Her Dad taught her to play arpeggios and scales
giving way to ballads, marches, and reels.
Orchestral arrangements she handled with zeal
which morphed into solos, giving every listener a thrill.
She played marching, sitting, and riding in wagons
and always kept time
her slide never was draggin'.
Mama loved playing music and music loved her,
if a new group was forming, she'd give it a whirl.
Big bands and concert bands, she played in them all,
but what I loved most happened when I was just small.
She put us to bed ostensibly to sleep,
and out of our bedroom stealthily, she would creep
to the hallway, the living room
where promptly she sat
and warmed up her trombone with nary a blat.
What delightful music
Mama coaxed from that brass!
It soothed and relaxed and never was crass.
To the sacred sound of hymns floating through the air
off to sleep, I would soon be
with four four time and a flat here and there
drifting off to such sweet melodies.
For well over seventy years, she's been playin'
from gospel, to Dixieland, and jazz
but the music I loved most to hear on that bone
were the songs that she practiced
and played in our home.
While I lay in bed 
as quiet as a mouse
and listened to Mama playing

in our old house
reverent music to God

while off to sleep, I would nod
sweet ballads fit for her King.
- T Deffely
November 05, 2016

The Old Barn Ode

Out in the country where the corn grows tall
sits an old barn without any paint at all.
The gray metal roof still casts its sheen
over the vegetation in a vast sea of green.
On any given Sunday if you were to drive by
you’d probably journey on since it wouldn’t catch your eye.
But there’s a secret within the walls of this particular barn
and I’m compelled to stop today and spin a family yarn.
Once upon a time there was a two story house that stood
to the south of the barn across from the chicken coop.
A young German Shepherd Dog frolicked in the yard
while my Grandma churned the butter and my uncles played and sparred.
Grandpa was on the tractor out in the field
while my Mother placed in the pan the potatoes she just peeled.
Later on that night if you were to venture past
you would hear the trombones playing with nary an errant blat.
But today the rickety chicken coop and the house are both long gone
and I must end my reminiscing for it’s time to move along.
But as I pull away from the barn in the middle of the corn
I feel a certain longing and my heart seems so forlorn.
Empty chairs and empty tables and empty homes and barns
hold within their memories a lifetime of family yarns.
-T Deffely
19 August 2018

The Gordon Bower farm Haskins, Ohio