Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
john-f-mccullaghPoems
When days of future pass and cannot come again- Half a century seems a moment. A loved musician meets his end. The haunting notes you played on the flute; those somber moody blues- will echo through eternity though you, yourself be through. A treasured disk of Vinyl; A loved, remembered song. I played it first when just a teen living in my parents’ home. A Sculptor’s work melts in the rain It’s lines made indistinct An author, once thought popular, may  soon be out of ink. A film made in the golden age is faded acetate. The beauty of white satin nights I hope escapes their fate.
0
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
A Night for White Satin
When days of future pass and cannot come again- Half a century seems a moment. A loved musician meets his end. The haunting notes you played on the flute; those somber moody blues- will echo through eternity though you, yourself be through. A treasured disk of Vinyl; A loved, remembered song. I played it first when just a teen living in my parents’ home. A Sculptor’s work melts in the rain It’s lines made indistinct An author, once thought popular, may  soon be out of ink. A film made in the golden age is faded acetate. The beauty of white satin nights I hope escapes their fate.
( Ray Thomas, a founding member of the Moody Blues, has died. Their album " Days of Future Passed" was one of my first acquisitions.) 1967
#ray#thomas
john-f-mccullagh
Written by
john-f-mccullagh
63/M/American
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem