WELL, JOANNIE, MY DEAR
Well, Joannie, my dear,
here you are again,
slim and graceful as
you always are, your voice
hanging in the air.
Beauty that goes deeper
than your heart, melodies
that so fall apart, but I love
you so I pick them out
of air and hand them back
to you.
I see you all of your life, your
singing on stage like a recur-
ring dream, black hair falling
over brown skin, thin and
thick at the same time, rhyme
and rhythm mixing into a
stream of love that courses
through me endlessly. I kiss
your guitar that never goes
afar but is always on your
hip; I’ll not let it slip.
I see you singing to one
fellow in the third row, then
realize he sits almost ever-
where, floating on every chord,
Lord knows how many men
have fallen in love with you.
But I do not misconstrue; I know
you are the world’s love, and I
share you with eternity and bliss
and share your every kiss with
all who need your wisdom and
warmth. As I’m with you every
day, I say, “Baez, you are fighting
wars, putting just into justice,
loving Dr. King, willing to die
for him, stopping only to re-
ceive another accolade, which
you place into your silky black
hair, so fair.
I am with you even when you’re
far away. I stay in you when you’re
in Bangladesh and Montreal. Your
face stays young, Your voice, too,
is as fresh as Spring, and though
your hair is grayer now, I see you
as you always are, ageless, tran-
scending time.
God bless you for the life you’ve
lived, an easing of the strife of billions,
No minions there, just you on
stage, your guitar that floats
through air, love and bliss
that blesses and kisses every
soul you sing to.
Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and human-rights advocate his entire adult life. He just finished his first novel, A CHILD FOR AMARANTH.
