it was late at night
when my guitar string broke
and I didn’t know what to do.
so with a laden sigh
and a tempered joke,
I tried to change my point of view.
I’ll tell you it wasn’t easy,
no instantaneous claim,
but if my guitar string
broke any other day,
I bet I’d be the same.
see, it always hurts to lose a string
make it one or two or three,
but as long as one’s still hanging on,
you can make that guitar sing.

be well,
bcb

After deep observation, it was the old mind that spoke first to the young thinker,
“Why is it that you periodically pardon yourself from this reality in which we harbor?”

The young thinker, entertained with this interposing notice, introduced his perception of this particular act of reservation and detachment. As such an act of consideration, left restrained is a sense of why.

As he does, the young thinker spoke,
“It is upon my fair and conscious decipherment that this reality surely prevails despite my absence. Though my unceremonious naïveté may have coaxed my mind into the notion that the genuine functionality of this existence bids no satisfaction or blossoming in conjunction with my vacancy; I know better than to revel such a thought. From myself, have I withheld the truth of the matter, but no longer shall that be. This pivotal revelation preeminent to reassessing my proper call to reason. Why am I here? May I enduringly unify my will to my why.”

The old mind, bolstered in comprehension and for a moment, rested, understood this why.

be well,
bcb

for fifty years have you walked this earth
for fifty more will I walk like you
for fifty years have you stood proudly and boldly
for fifty more will I stand like you
for fifty years have you served so resolutely
for fifty more will I serve like you
for fifty years have you seized so relentlessly
for fifty more will I seize my own
for fifty years have you reached for better
for fifty more will I reach like you
for fifty years have you loved endlessly
for fifty more will I endlessly love
this you have inspired within me
all I do is for you

be well
bcb

bring me to your albatross and from there we shall depart. I will bear your woes, your weary load, so you may still your heart.

if you lead me to your albatross, I insist it come my way. do not shelter me, only strengthen me for the spells of disarray.

bestow to me, your albatross and I will dress it up in cloth. I withstand for you, dear friend of mine, so you may reach abroad.

I believe in you just as I am restless for you

be well,
bcb

there was sign of life.
the modest gathering of juvenile boys, unbeknownst to man, tread across our barren land with their threadbare sneakers and sentimental minds. the youth spoke of our unspoken parlance. entranced, they were, of our melodious style, our sultry sways and intrinsic device. preserved ponderously was the allure of the oracular clouds and the virtue of the boundless sky. beheld from this came an admiration that stretched far beyond the comprehension of a closed eye, an admiration that could be felt. it was the youth who asked to see that of what could stop them. it was within the life of us that we could present nothing.
how far they might go.

be well,
bcb