The Musician
Is sitting in a room filled with millions of musical instruments
Scattered and strewn all across the floor.
Over many kalpas he has sat in the room,
And he shall sit for many more,
Wishing to play his song.
From time to time he picks up an instrument and, in trying it,
Sees it is out of tune.
Then, with a wistful expression, he puts it back down.
Some of the instruments are broken, a few irreparably,
But most just need to be tuned.
If all of the keys or strings were rightly tuned
They might then make a harmonious sound,
And the whole instrument could then resonate
With its own sympathetic vibration.
You are not the Musician, you are the instrument.
If all the parts of yourself were rightly tuned
Your heart would also sound, sounding with a note that is yours alone.
Find yourself a shop where you might be tuned,
Make haste, for the Musician waits for you.
He is asking for you.


  1. Very nice Dennis!

  2. Thank you, Dara, be well, Dennis

  3. Pure poetry!

  4. Thank you, and best to you, Mitzi

  5. We’ve been without power and internet, so I’m catching up on emails.
    Reading your poem is a lovely, heartening way to begin Friday morn.
    Thank you, Dennis.

  6. You are most welcome, thank you, Susan.

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