Powell Hall

We’ve been going there since the late 60s
Red plush seats
Ivory-colored walls
Ornate with sculpted shapes
Patterns
Faces and vases
Gold-leaf highlights

As the hour approaches
Far below
On the stage
Instrumentalists
Move into sections
Concert Master appears
An A is sounded

Tuning begins
Then silence
Audience awaits
Tuxedoed conductor emerges
Taking the podium
Cues the orchestra
Magic and wonder fill the room

I often feel
On those evenings
Nothing else exists
Hurtling through the universe
Alone in this space
Unique in its own timelessness
Creations of those long departed
Made present

©2019 Thomas W. Cummins

 

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7 Responses to “Powell Hall”

  1. Diane Kreuger Says:

    Very nice

    All is as it should be.

    Diane Kreuger

    >

  2. maskednative Says:

    “Hurtling through the universe….Alone in this space………Unique in its own timelessness…….”
    Very nice. You paint a picture of a beautiful time capsule

  3. maskednative Says:

    Spelling correction – Encore, and again, encore.

  4. Steve Givens Says:

    This is beautiful, Tom. I didn’t know you had this site. Looking forward to more of your poetry. Love what music (and God working through music) does to us. Good to see you on Saturday.

    • Tom Says:

      Good to see you too, Steve.

      One takeaway for me from Saturday was Fr. Horan’s question, “Who decides the meaning of “other”?”

      That just blows me away and reveals the center of gravity of privilege.

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