A birthday tribute

Ode to Michael Blake

By Charles Redner

Here’s to the Age of Retirement
and all that jive,
sixty plus cinco
on twenty-ten, July five.
Give a cheer ‘cause Michael’s
made it to here.
Ya’ll know the drill—
a toast—lift up a frosty,
cold mug of beer.

His classic Dances taken on a life of its own,
then Twelve raced off to heaven, but is hardly alone.

Hundreds now follow their undaunted King
a galloping Pegasus over endless valleys upon angel wings.

The Holy Road’s waiting
for Hollywood to call,
where that darn Kevin guy
is too busy hitting a ball.
Indian Yell tells the stories
white-folks shudder to recall
but needs retelling, so never again
at a Wounded Knee they fall.
___________________________
You may bury my body in Sussex grass,
You may bury my tongue at Champmedy.
I shall not be there, I shall rise and pass.
Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.

Stephen Vincent Benet
“American Names,” 1931