This poem, it is true, was written in fulfillment of a course
requirement for the Academie. However, the more I grow the more I see
that the truths proclaimed in the Circle of Fifths can apply to many
walks of life; and so I share them here.

A Circle of Pillars

Upon the pillow rests her head,
A maiden fair in slumber deep.
Though her body never moves
To profound heights her mind doth leap.
This, her vision, I will tell.
I beg of thee to listen well.

In domed rotunda she awakes
As twilight turns the sky to grey.
Twelve pillars 'round like sentries stand
To keep the dark of night at bay.
On each column can be seen
A single word in script pristine.

The first embodies identity.
VOICE, it reads, and nothing more.
Yet voice is how we greet the world,
In laughter, song, or loud uproar!
Our written voice can us define:
It can win hearts, or hearts malign.

INSTRUMENTS the next doth read.
Lute and harp and flute and lyre,
The tools of trade for festive Bards
When used in concert, joy inspired!
Keep them clean, precisely tuned,
An instrument's a handy boon.

And on the third, INTEGRITY writ
In letters deeply carved in stone.
Through our mouths we channel truth,
Express our hopes, our fears bemoan.
We'd hold our souls in disregard
To use another's words as ours.

HISTORY, there, upon the fourth:
What's in the past we'll surely see
Return to life if we learn not
From battles waged previously.
Tired stories, rendered glistening,
We will ease the toil of listening.

On pillar five the maiden peers
At letters writ as tall as she.
We strive; we seek a way to live,
To craft our own PHILOSOPHY.
In gracious truth it must be based
Else falsehood mark our fall from grace.

Cast in stylish letters here:
PERFORMANCE. Ah, the heady thrill!
Draped in costume, mind alert,
Dramatic music with all the frills.
Play well and the crowd we'll win,
And if we don't, we'll try again!

ORDER, here, is carved quite clean,
A reminder of the need for space.
Prioritize our lives and art:
A place for each; each in its place.
If all we seek is lost in clutter
Then our art will surely suffer.

Reaching out to touch the word:
BLADE, the maiden shyly smiles.
Ornate and shining, the rapiers' dance
Is subtler still than feminine wiles.
To kill should be the last resort,
As in high branches Bards cavort.

INSPIRATION, the source we seek
From whence art cascades, tumbling out.
The quiet voice of that fair Muse
Whispers to the brave devout.
Yet deep in faith, if silence rules
Seek other ways to use thy tools.

On a pillar, gilt and gleaming:
IMAGINATION, set it free.
Past and present sparks ignite
Red, billowing flames for all to see.
Some ideas require care,
Others shine newborn and bare.

Now to PASSION the maiden comes,
Lord Scarlatti's pride and joy.
Deep love stirs the heart and mind
To create, our wits employed
In devoted effort that we may please
The fair object of our ecstasies.

The final pillar in the round
Reads DISCIPLINE in letters stark.
Perfection sought with dread resolve.
No other phrase hits nearer the mark.
If "good" you say, is not "enough",
Your art will flourish when times are tough.

Having read each pillar once,
The maiden clutches to her breast
The resounding echoes of the truths
The ancient pillars have professed.
A circle, in perfect harmony,
Of Life's defining artistry.

Now, dear listener, I have come
To tale's end. Let the maid awake
To ponder o'er her slumber's dream.
And if there be a lesson to take,
Please take abundantly and give
To all, so that we in love might live.



Penned by my hand on the 14th of Phaestian, in the year 388 AF.