Last night when the yellow moon
of November broke through the last line
of turbulent Midwestern clouds,
a lone frog, the same one
who probably announced
the premature spring floods,
attempted to sing.
Veterans' Day, and it was
In reality the invisible musician
reminded me of my own doubt.
The knowledge that my grandfathers
were singers as well as composers
one of whom felt the simple utterance
of a vowel made for the start
of a melodydid not produce
the necessary memory or feeling
to make a Wadasa Nakamoon,
All I could think of
was the absence of my name
on a distant black rock.
Without this monument
I felt I would not be here.
For a moment, I questioned
why I had to immerse myself
in country, controversy and guilt,
but I wanted to honor them.
Surely, the song they presently
listened to along with my grandfathers
was the ethereal kind which did not stop.
Ray A. Young Bear, The Invisible Musician, Holy Cow! Press, 1996.