Swing Song in Your Heart

Swing Song In Your Heart
Sunday at the dance, at the club Continental,
Sunday after Sunday, every single Sunday drawn to this Sun,
This Mecca of Merriment, this Jerusalem of Swing,
Where dancers old and young, black and white,
Christian, Jew, Buddhist and Nothing,
Are spiritually fortified by the Forties,
By the music and dancing of that golden time,
Time that Glenn, Benny, Count, Jordan and Duke ruled,
A time called Big Band, when Swing was King.

There, one Sunday, as I tucked in my spot,
I noticed a bright light in the corner,
It came from a creature, so radiant, so sweet,
That I was overwhelmed and felt the need of consorting,
To connect our voices together,
I opened my mouth and said something typically erudite:
"Uh, wanna dance?"

But then we were stepping,
And so good did it feel, so delightful the partner,
That I hoped it could continue through the dancing,
That perhaps we'd spend the night holding left to right,
Swinging out, tap stepping, tucking and turning,
Lindy whipping, hammerlocking and stomping off,
Dancing off into her arms, her lips and heart,
All this I was dreaming, of leading that light.

But then I let her go, as I have learned to do,
So we could dance with others and compare,
Then 'twas later I saw her again,
And would not miss my chance to talk alone,
To learn of her life and passions, to see if passion coincides,
And tell her of my hopes of further knowledge,
Knowledge of her kind teaching, her gentle heart,
It was then I knew: she has my number.

O Dark Blonde in a swinging sonnet,
Beautiful One in my Rock 'N' Roll soul,
Would that sweet swing song in your heart be mine.

Serenade

Serenade
by Edgar Allen Poe

So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list, - so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls - O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.