The Records are cracked but spin with delight

At home still play my old records,
that take me to uncontrolled steeples heights,
punk, jazz and blues, some reggae and soul,
psychedelic adventurers, world music cosmanauts,
celtic flowers spinning with benediction.

Entrapping time, drowning conversation,
in magical perfume, atoms of infinity.
supplicants of memory,
returning me to,
gardens  of youth.

Round and round, paint the sky,
with saluted cadence, discharging smiles,
floods of necessity, time capsules of electricity,
cicada's voice rumbles on,
ringing out loud, doubling horizon,
opening windows of perception,
rhythms endless stream,
resurrecting and carrying.

Transistors of heart's beat,
that feed my faith,
in pastures of endurity,
these tides release my dancing feet,
floating on rivers of delight.

Oceans of sound,  navigate uncharted
                                                 waters,
as the needle gets into the groove,
melding endlessly in gracious flight,
the blossom of chords and notes,
is enough to sustain and warm,
as melodies and songs, explode on
                                              tonque.