To feel the hum of skin—
a rhythm under flesh,
bleeding ears of melodies
louder than memory.

Flaws fall, resting like
skipped notes on the floor
of silence. I said,
"I’m not a song, not a chorus,
not a chorus, nor the neat refrain
someone can replay.

Yet these songs in my ears—
they take me in, to teach me
how to belong.

I’m not a song, but maybe a lyric—
unfinished, still searching for the
right line. Perhaps in due time, to the
metronome of my heart.

I can see myself wasting away
and
drooling on the carpet,
playing guitar
in empty rooms,
sitting in old bones.
no one is there to hear it
but it still plays,
it still comes through
like that—
with or without an audience,
with or without reason,
with or without permission,
as if it was more important
to be born than to be noticed or polite.
if I make it
to those old bones
and empty rooms,
to that guitar,
what will it sound like?
will I hear melodies of connection,
threnodies of yet un-lived sorrows,
interludes of foggy nobility?
I am deaf to the music of my life
but if I listen closely
I can hear death
playing music in another room
behind
a closed door.

Listen here, miss crazy,
Every Breath I Take, my soul
screams, Don't Stand so Close
to Me.  I want to escape.
Maybe to an Island, where
the only contact with your
madness will be by a
Message in a Bottle.

So please, Roxanne, for the
last time, there was no
Synchronicity between us.
Haunt someone else with
your, Ghost in the Machine
the mumbo jumbo and your
Do Do Do, Da Da Da.
no longer works.

The Life of a Showgirl

Glitter is just dust
that learned to beg for attention.

The crowd loves the fire,
not the girl breathing the smoke.

I’ve bled in gowns worth more than rent.
Showgirls don’t sleep,
we just step out of view.

I bow so low the room flips upside down
and think about staying there.

The house always wins when the house is me.
Every encore’s just a prettier cage.

Applause is hunger wearing perfume.
I’ve been feeding it my spine for years.

Every standing ovation is an autopsy report—
cause of death: she was too good at her job.

I learned to stand still
so the aim would be easier.
The dress is breathtaking,
and I can’t breathe.

The pearls bruise softer in summer.
By fall, they know my throat’s shape.
By winter,
I forget I can take them off.

The life of a showgirl
is knowing the curtain call
and the execution order
sound exactly the same.

And I bow
until the curtain closes,
and I’m gone-
even I’m not sure
where I go.

a rush of ink
on the back of a bill,
thanking me
for taking care
of you
and your family.

i still have it —
it’s framed.

never meet your heroes,
they say.
but what if their art
scatters the darkness
we all try to navigate?

feeling fine
freely smiling
music in my ears
i’m jamming out
that one song comes on
i know it in three notes
i thought i deleted it
it stops me in my tracks
because now im reliving it

After an iteration of lying silent,
Slowly breathing
In and out
Enduring a lifetime of suffocation,
Something is seen.
Amongst the ashes of what once existed
And along the edges of the things that used to grow,
Life begins again
A warmth and a green haze that belies
The reckless abandon
Of all that used to be.
The whisper of Hope begins
A hoarse and hollow voice
Folding in on itself
While it echos across the barren wasteland
Of old, storm-worn steps
That lead into the coming days.
I look up
At the ashes that still fall,
Settling at my shredded feet
In piles of gray
And despair.
But Hope's voice grows ever louder
Though it never rises above a mutter,
Weak and worn
From years of oppression.
My eyes land on a single shade of blue
That birthed the emerald Hope
Among the ashes of the past.
And in a swirling maelstrom of ephemeral understanding,
I can now see:
There will be music here again
It may be many an era before its strands
Pluck through the dust
Of the destruction wrought
But there will be music here again.

Yesterday
while walking my dog
At the park
I saw a tall drink of water
A Winsome man who put us at ease
He’s saying his music to the air in trees
A genuine cowboy
From head to toe,

A cowboy hat, boots,Wrangler jeans
a rodeo belt buckle
Gave me a chuckle he sat
in a chair under a yonder, shade tree,
I saw him before he saw me

I mention if he sat there long enough,
He just might see
Eagles, hawks and a vultures or two
His slow reply
“ all I’ve seen so far
is a dog I once knew”

Lean back in his chair,
relaxing there contemplating
the morning view 7:42 am
By the time we finish our walk,
he was gone his melody, his song
still linger from the tips of his fingers

Today, sitting on a picnic table
The cowboy young and able
guitar in hand singing his music, he took a stand
(sundown by Gordon Lightfoot 1974)
“Strumming my face with his fingers
Singing in my whole life with this song”
like he was part of a country band

The minute we got out of the car he stopped,
Pulled his guitar down
I smiled when I spoke half in a joke
I had hoped  for a serenader or two
He looked up
Tipped his hat with a gleam in his eye
You were were you
as we walked by

Halfway down the trail,
I can hear him
strumming his guitar had much to say
Not singing just playing away

The soothing country, music,
gracefully in the air
birds, squirrels,  deer
Far and near
animals big and small everywhere paused
Ears went up twitching animals in awe
for a moment
to take in the one man band
As more people arrived for their daily walkabout

Simply honest, not to deceive
The cowboy quietly got up to leave
A Solitary man


Inspired song

1)Solitary man  (April 1966)
By Neil Diamond

2)Killing me softly 1973
By Roberta Flack

BLT Webster’s Word of the day challenge
Winsome  8-8-25
Windsome describes people and things that are cheerful, pleasant, and appealing