Monday nights with red carpet,
Up there in the praise band box.
A rough red and we all tread it, up and down the red carpet stairs,
Sit on red carpet steps.
Black coat hung here over the pew,
And cases with black hides, soft insides.
Our leader will practice in socks
I notice, but only when he has to take over drums.
Black purse straps, gold buckle loops,
Sway here from altar corners.
The leader is her husband and she has pale hair and once-in-a-lifetime crystal eyes,
A brilliant smile full of harmonies. Never means anything but peace.
Sashay: a lacy ballet move that involves a skip, a turn, and gentle toes.
This is her older sister, who is thin
And lovely and commanding, whose
Papers line the black music stands in scattered, faded-cardstock, off-beat colors.
A laugh that rings like sun in cedars and its reflections in river water
Announces her husband's arrival (funny match). Usually late,
Forgot the books, with all our songs, had to drop off their
Tiny fox-nosed daughter someplace. Wonderful and boyish, sort of satyr of a guy.
The chirp of a phone sometimes, and it's coming from the snuggest corner,
Just the place for a tiny brunette with plain, pretty clothes
A definite, special style, neverending cheer, a knack for singular notes and
Mints in her bag to go around.
The violin belongs to spidery hands,
An elegant peer with straight, shining hair, neat bangs,
Well-timed advice, an intimidating work ethic that I would crumble beneath.
It leaks stormclouds of passion from its strings.
Backbone bass player, a calm riot,
On his way to wisdom, offers knowledge and stories and things-
Red-head daughter's feet swing on the bench, restless little son plays with pencils there.
He's named after a gem and that's just one more reason to marvel him.
Soldier march drummer, wears the beat,
Speaks the beat, breathes it. My brother
Aspires to be like him, I think, he tried to learn to be a drummer after school,
But you can tell ours never had to learn a thing.
Swan neck stands, blackbird,
River ripples of black cords that wind
Incessantly from silver banded cylinders.
'The snake' is a small black box that snaps full of plugs.
Sunday is showtime, Monday is an experiment, fresh every week,
And when I trundle in from the snow infected wind
After school has long since ended and it's nearly night,
I look up to see a beautiful box filled with beams and some concentrated frowns,
Hear some say 'look who it is!' because they love to see me
And some say 'oh good, you're here' because they know I love to see them
As some wind switches of coiled black pulse and some
Twist knobs, indecipherable codes.
And I see God and more aspects of Him that we don't have names for yet
In every single one of their faces.
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Our bass player's name is Garnett, in case you were wondering.
