Do You Have A Song?

When Whitman said

make your life a song,

had he spoken to old whalers?

Did they tell him of nights becalmed

on a pacific salty sea,

when no sound of lapping waves,

or rope stressed wood,

could interfere with the silence in the hold?

Did they tell of a time beyond sleep

long after the oil lamps were shut down?

When the silence of the briny deep

was broken by the eerie songs, of whales,

oozing through the wooden walls.

Did they know, then, what they heard,

or did they talk in hushed tones

as ancient seamen did,

of harpies and sirens and

devils of the deep.

Did some say, “Those are our prey.”

and recognize the song

and even familiar melodies and laments

from earlier seasons spent

plying these same seas.

Short songs and long songs

and new songs built upon old songs,

pod songs and fractal songs,

and interminable songs of pain

and love songs that can be heard

by those who hear

from one edge of the basin

of the sea, under to the other edge.

Do you have a song?

Have you worked on it each season?

Is it short and repetitious

or have you worked to improve

its sound each turning of the moon?

Is it deep and subtle?

Does it provoke a laugh?

Would I recognize it far away

on a dark and briny night?

Would you mind if I wove my song

in and out of yours?

Do you have a song?