Miss Emma, Emma my sweet;
Play your tune; tap your beat.
Drift along on floating keys;
Light our room with artful ease.
An old chair of canvas torn,
Rickety wheels and handles worn.
Sad gray coat, and bonnet blue,
Cloak the spirit bursting through.
Weave your notes in colors fast,
Led by friends and lovers past,
Whose kind respect winds along,
Finding rhymes to guide your song.
Sparkling strings – horns a blowin’
Snapping base – drums a poundin’
Wail and blare and softly cry
On a cool New Orleans high.
Then a silence stills the crowd;
Left in awe we wait aloud.
The banjo man picks and croons,
His heart and life in his tune.
He plays away while you stare;
Waiting drama fills the air.
At the end he sets the stage;
A duet in quiet rage.
Subtle art, your gentle cry;
It lifts a tear from our eye.
Echoes wander tingling ears;
Sensing time and long gone years.
Miss Emma, Emma my sweet;
Play your tune; tap your beat.
Drift along on floating keys;
Light our room with artful ease.
James K. Richardson