Dearest Mr. Cohen,
I came to your music quite late in my life,
Pardon me, but this couldn’t be helped,
I was born a little too late for my soul in nineteen sixty-four,
By this time in your life you had already seen,
The stitch, purpose, and the cosmic inseams,
What about life and why we use words,
Having been placed so strategically.
Yes, I am American born, wishing more understood,
The depth and compassion, you’ve given the world,
I guess it is true, as I’ve always been told,
I just have a flower girl’s soul,
For my inner child knew, when first I heard you,
As a poet, as one of the wilde,
You spoke from my heart, so true.
I’ve listened, I’ve learned,
I’ve read and reviewed,
Studies your portrait a million times through,
Held the words you have offered,
The naked soul you shared often,
And, yes, I argue with God too.
You kept it simple so much of the time,
No need to make burdens or bruise,
You made it so hard, you tore it apart,
Just for a reason to use up the glue,
You planted weeds and harvested flowers,
Boquets of glass, caskets for those who choose,
How we live at times, to merely taste the hues.
You’ve taught us of love’s emaculate embrace,
Kissing war of the foot though with distaste,
To sing for our sister’s freedom and grace,
Even though our counting beads are worn,
On hands stealing bread, feeding mouths of babes,
Your strong laughter lives in our pink hallways,
We shant ever forget your face.
You examined all our heros, and the heroins relaced,
Immortalizing these fragile poets promise with your praise,
Others dared not walk that space for lack of courage spent,
You, Leonard, took the dark wood’s path with lampless gallows,
For there is the greatest danger in lighting a smoke,
When your clothes are soaked in your truth and gasoline,
Opening all of the closets at once with no conical of refrain.
With Sharon you’ve breathed life into woman, Glorifying She in the fullness of the Self,
In Her truest beauty, Her sins, Her nakedness, or your word gowns,
Tis how we find our compass all so often, music being all we have,
In the temple, in the bedroom, in the grass or flowing fountain,
The melody seeks the melody hands dancing passion’s play to love,
This seeking ever draws us home in the end if we listen long enough.
To thank you overly, Mr. Cohen, for the songs and poetry,
I know that’s not your particular style, So, I’d like to say I am grateful, friend.
For your journey being such as it has been,
For your sharing, for your great smile, your diligence, and the quest,
The risk you took in searching so deeply, inside your wounded Self,
For Suzanne, Boogie Street, and Master Song, (to barely name a few)
for every drop of yourself you gifted.
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