at home in the desert
consequently
safe in the market place

The musician

Nothing more
&
nothing less than
a travelling instrument,
with
the voice of a thousand ashtrays
&
the past of a thousand mistakes.

Living life out  a suitcase,
and abused stained sheet music,
a sweet movement,
some say.

Some said he was to cute to change;
he would make it someday,
but for now,
just feeling those home town blues,
in a city so far away.

Take a walk in those shoes,
one size too small.
Let the soles talk in rhythms
played,
the beat of the drum conundrum.

Done
London,
LA,
New York
&
Lisbon;

Still searching
for something;

The band missed a beat,
and now he misses the the band.

He’s got the crowd in the palms of his hands,
but they’ll never understand;
the music
man.

1.
Quite far you are,know not where, time and space remain fused,
But, our love is still a wild flower, that takes new avatars
Fully bloomed, defies sun and rain,other vagaries of seasons,
This love is beyond the thrills of flesh, not even nocturnal togetherness.
To plant a kiss of love on your lips,the wind will be my messenger,
With a gentle caresses  you will be reminded how my lips felt on yours,
In reciprocation, with your scent wind would envelop me on return.
2.
Our love has faced many harsh climes, still we persisted,
Fallen down and walked again limping, long distances,
Our love has martyr's blood  running through veins,still brave, sings
The song we loved, not together, a new light our love had found.
Beyond the point of togetherness,love is indestructible, defying logic.
3.
My flesh and blood would wither away,yours too have the same fate,
Your beating heart and mine,one day will embrace stillness.
Love has to live beyond the tunes of heart beats and our lives.

In wind and water, earth and fire, all over the vastness of space,
Millions would come together,in life, in death, sing love's paeans

Instead of a card
I carved you a pome
on my heart.

It didn't hurt too much
until I sewed myself up.

You see, I know
you'll never see
the words I bleed.

When the day was dying
I was back to the market.

The last time I was there
haggled with her over the price.

She wanted to sell high
I wanted to buy low.

You win she said at last
I bought high
but have to sell low.

I knew she was lying.

This time she wasn't there.

Someone said
her man had left for another woman
and she hadn't since been seen.

The deepening evening hung like a dagger of pain.

She was never good at bargain.

I've only got one bar
on my phone and there's only
one more between here and home.
Ten dollars in my pocket may as well
be a thousand. Like a penny
in the fusebox, I could make it last
until the lights go out. There's a cowboy
band playing. A wooden Indian
by the door. I don't think he listens
to their stories anymore. He's quiet
on the subject. He's quite an object
of curiosity. Instead of two-stepping
all night long, maybe I should take
that Indian home. Use the last bar
to call Coleen. Tell her to put a ***
of cowboy coffee on. We'll tell stories
of our own. Sing songs in the old way
about better days when we were young.

Lady in a gray dress
calling this a wintry mix

A coastal low with rain and sleet

I reckon so, but it sure seems
like the winter blues to me.