An Ode to Connie FrancisThe sound of the lovely singer, enchanting, enthralling; It is there. She knows, she must wonder too; Shadows. Softly radiant, not seen, gently felt, Promises. Unheard, unspoken, in shadows unseen. But not unseeable. First, so long ago. A look, a touch; It was there. I felt it there. I knew it then. So light a touch, so silent a sound, almost a Hope. A dream with substance, sentiment with form. Melodies murmured. "...affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient," For "Ye who believe in..." such things, unseeable, but Gently felt; she sings. She sings for me, Unknowingly. My spirit soars on wafting strains of beauteous sound as The lovely lady sings, in tones sublime. My spirit mounts The strands of interwoven time. Another place, another time, a different touch, The song of the lovely singer, not yet sung, but Known, not here; there, where beauty is born, given form, Lovingly. For me. For you, for all who hope with affection that Endures and is patient. Promises, almost heard; hope, Almost seen; unknowingly, of these she sings. Sing lovely lady, sing to me in forms Resplendent with softly whispered promises, not heard; but Felt, by heart; touched, by spirit; seen, by Hope. Of a better place, the music speaks, where hope rises; Gladness, the promises blooming unshrouds. The place, in Wondering doubt, in faltering hope, awaited. Where Cassiopeia and Lyra and Pleiades, and other of the Great choir, whose borrowed light and names from the stars Reclaiming, Join in the song of the lovely lady, who in the naming Became, Connie Francis. Peace, joy, lovely light so freely given, Return with the over laden river of wishes for happiness. Now, in time tedious, and then, in time forgotten. Sing on, dear lady, sing on. by Justin Ingalls |