"buskers" poems
It ain’t too bad to be from there
Just ask my family and friends
But it’s too flat, ain’t no way out
The roads are all dead ends.
Sometime soon I’ll find a place
Where the music I’ll enjoy
But for now I keep on tryin’
To escape from Illinois!
There’s a river on the border west
That moves a lot of dirt
Mighty Muddy Mississipp
Drowns the pain and covers hurt
Yeah, I’m movin’ south to New Orleans
Maybe I can find employ
In a blues bar down on Bourbon Street
Escape from Illinois!
Well I stopped a week along the way
When I saw the Gateway Arch.
But the folks out by the airport
Were stagin’ up a march.
Seems a white cop fired a shot that killed
An unarmed teenage boy
Oh yeah, the teenage boy was black,
Escape from Illinois.
Kept walkin’ to the Landing
(Named for Pierre Laclede)
It has most every thing you want
But nothing that you need
Some travelin’ folk told me some news
That made me jump for joy
Memphis maybe had some work
Escape from Illinois!
Found the haunted house called Graceland
And the grave where Elvis lay
Where half a million go each year
(Fifteen thousand every day)
They all want to pay respects
To the rockin’ – rollin’ boy
Put their finger in the bullet holes
Escape from Illinois.
Went downtown, knocked on some doors
Once or twice I went inside
But Beale Street was broken
The travelin’ folks had lied.
‘Cuz there ain’t no jobs in Memphis,
Or maybe I’m too coy
So I hitched a ride to Nashville
Escape from Illinois.
Nashville’s a big old meltin’ ***
Lots of great ones started here
But most end up as tourists
Getting’ ****** and drinkin’ beer
So money’s at a premium
And fame’s a fake decoy
End up workin’ in a record store
Escape from Illinois?
From Asheville to Atlanta
From Austin to LA
From Biloxi back to Baton Rouge
Need a place where I can play
I’ll follow all the buskers,
Form a musical convoy
Livin’ day by day and town by town
Escape from Illinois!
I’m a minstrel, like a rubber band
I keep on snappin’ back
I’m gonna make it somewhere
Singing somewhere, that’s a fact
Got my guitar and my music
Gotta do what I enjoy
Find a place to sing my songs for you,
Hell, it may be Illinois!
Phil Lindsey 6/4/15
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
We've got bagpipes and buskers,
cannons, and clip.
Lots of marijuana, and tons of tall ships.
Plenty of seafood, and point pleasent park.
It looks pretty lame, until the streets become dark.
Weve got the Citadel hill, and pavilion kids.
lockups, and lockdown. All things that we did.
Plenty of days, where we fell on our *** ,
smokin dope in the glade, and layin on grass.
With colt 45, and 151.
Alexander keiths, and malibou ***
Weve all jumped a fence, and swam chocolate lake.
No other province could handle the risks that we take.
Cause were crazy,obviously, were maritimers.
Dartmouth, and spryfeild.. Hell, our schools are the worst.
But its halifax, Nova scotia.
We do it our way.
Live like the east coast,
Cause i do everyday.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Now sit there, just a minute, hold on, hear my tale
for just a minute.
One of humanity, sincerity, tragedy
Of when I was there, live from the square.
Jackson Square.
Not the one of Coin Coin, the Nevilles, the Toussaints,
Allen or L’Overture.
This is one of a momma and her baby
in 2008.
Three years, three years,
three years after the flood, three years after the storm.
Let me paint you a picture of Orleans as it stood one day in 2008
as it stands today.
2008, NewOrleans:
What happens here, no one will remember in the morning.
The buskers, the tunes, why, even the voodoos get the blues.
Walking towards Bourbon
The lights, the sin, the history
New Orleans, where life ain't so easy.
There’s a family down there who don't survive so peacefully.
You can see them if you walk down Canal St., leisurely.
There, sleeping on the courthouse stairs,
A mother and her child who own only the clothes they wear.
The boy was young, elementary-aged
Curious too, I could hear him ask questions:
"Mama, why don't we got food?"
And her reply,
"Son, that's just the way it is, life's just hard for me and you."
Sitting there on the courthouse stairs.
I take my place on the opposite side of the stoop,
Watching the crowds go by.
The women in their high-heeled shoes
The men with their shirts half-open.
Grenades in hand, ***** in the blood,
Pockets full of cash and hearts full of lust
New Orleans
What happens there, no one will remember come morning.
The buskers, the tunes, why, even the voodoos get the blues.
There’s a family on vacation there
In such a sinful city, a family.
White, middle-class, suburban, all too WASP-y.
mom, dad, a daughter and a son,
elementary aged, with a pop in his cheerful step,
On the way to a nice restaurant
gon’ eat crawfish, gator, red beans and rice, jambalaya.
They’ll forget to tip the waiter.
New Orleans,
What happens here, no one will remember come morning.
That happy family, walking down Canal St.
Like walking out the gates of hell
Where the lost souls sit on the stairs
Begging for something, anything at all
The happy family had ‘bout reached the courthouse when the young boy asked
"Daddy, why don't they have any food?"
His father covered his son’s eyes with his white hand and replied,
"Here son, let's go and find a toy for you to buy."
And the kid shrank after seeing this mom and her son
His innocent eyes died and he said,
"I don't want a toy. I don't want anything"
They walked on by, the happy boys' head turned the whole time,
those eyes. Stuck on the family that was stuck on the stairs
Mom dad, a daughter and a son,
Elementary-aged with a slump in his sunken step.
Now, in my mind I wonder:
was it more monumental that my life changed
or that a had life changed before my eyes
New Orleans, two thousand and eight.
New Orleans, today,
what happens there, no one will remember come morning.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
Back behind Gianni's bar
The Bluesman sings his tunes
To all the local n'er do wells
And to the stars and to the moon
His voice is coarse as forty grit
His playing smooths it out
He plays upon an orange crate
Comfort is not what he's about
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One sung just for me
One that paints pictures in my head
A song that I can see
Buskers, lined the concourse
The street where he was not
This was just a place for tourist fare
He was where the world forgot
His tunes were sung for no one but
Himself and to the air
Out front, that was another world
Bluesman, did not live out there
A crowd has gathered slowly
More of a group, than a real crowd
They heard about the bluesman
And out front was too **** loud
In back, you heard the feelings
Felt the music, heard the strings
You experienced the atmosphere
That a good old bluesman brings
Out of the crowd of fandom
Working his way through the mass
Was a young, tousled haired boy
Everybody let him pass
He rocked in one position
He felt the music ebb and flow
He looked where the notes were airborne
He saw the music go
The bluesman sat and watched him
playing stories, telling tales
Of drunks in old Las Vegas
And of sailors fighting gales
the young boy stood and rocked some
always looking at the air
He wasn't looking at the bluesman
He didn't know that he was there
He walked up to the old man
staring out into the space
that streamed the bluesmans music
right into the young boys face
the bluesman watched intently
As the young lad touched his hand
And he held the bluesmans old guitar
He became a member of the band
The boy moved even closer
If that were possible at all
He was feeling the sweet music
He was having quite a ball
The crowd watched as the bluesman
and the boy became as one
The boy resting his head now
On the guitar, having fun
He couldn't see the bluesman
But the music, it was there
The boy was blind, autistic
He saw the notes that filled the air
The bluesman kept on playing
For that was what the bluesman did
He was playing for the starry sky
And for this wondrous little kid
His mother came and held him
She took the bluesman by the hand
She said thank you for the music
For letting him be in your band
In a voice as smooth as Bourbon
The bluesman told her that her son
Could come and feel the music
The music makes us one
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One that's only just for me
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
That only I can see....
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
everything about it
the raising waves of sound
and the pluck of the violin
the fiddling fingers on the mandolin
and the swell of the drums
his voice bows like a singing saw
and curls down into the depths of his own feeling
and art not only in the poetry
but poetry in the very sound
*i want to see the things you see
because i like the way you breathe*
it pulls a soul onto its toes
both of the mind
and of the feet
and sends it dashing down the snowy roads lined by broken corn stalks
and gray buildings
and fairy lights of the city
brings us one with the buskers
and into the hearts
of every other person
who has heard it
my god, it has made us into a pool of humanity
each soul touching
in ways deeper than this
to my dear violins
and violas
and basses
and mandolins
and drummers
thank you for the gift
of sound
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the Mississippi
down the border
of Mississippi.
The girls with
the purple party beads
and the sax buskers
on the brown streetcars
drink through their
Mardi Gras,
down streetcars named Desire.
Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the slow jams
from the Apollo
during Locke's Renaissance.
The young gangsters
down every block
drop their
fists sticks knives guns
and shake to albee.
Holy Spirits
move through
vast cathedrals
and through
empty pews.
The zealous hearts
and the corrupt voices
all drink
and listen
to the voice
of the serpent.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
It's a thousand tiny cuts that you receive
From the moment you're born
Waiting for someone to tell you that you are beautiful.
You yearn to stay youthful
You've learned the indisputable fact.
Your inherent value as a person
Reduced to your physical appearance
And given a numerical value online
For what is a selfie without it likes?
This is enough to make anyone cynical
Because everyone is the enemy
Like buskers on a busy street
All are competing for the attention
Of the passing indifferent crowds
All singing to be seen, to be known
Even just for one fleeting moment
It is a strange but primary emotion of the human condition
Decreed at birth to need validation
And this foundation is firmly instilled in us.
We never learn to fuss about it, as society reminds us
That there is nothing to discuss.
Sign up and accept the terms and conditions.
Show yourself to the world.
Nothing beats the sensation of adoration.
Even now, right now, I am showing myself to you.
So tell me I'm pretty, world.
Tell me I matter.
Tell me I exist.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC
Just taking time out to see who's on the park. Been here for a while and there are a few guys who know what the board's for. There's a lad from Deptford who can turn a neat Olley on a Grind. Bit of a curiosity with my long board and northern street style. Had a couple of skate offs and found where the cracks are. Pulled the shoulder AGAIN but nothing serious. Thought there might be the odd ramp here seeing as it's London, the South Bank and all.
Been working on my rotationals. Three Sixty is just fine but the Five Forty is **** I don't think any of these guys here know what a One Seventy is. Well they do now.
Nobody here seems to skate off-park even though there are some well good grind rails and step jumps. Too many people about I suppose.
Saw this lass hitting Toe Edge to Heal Edge turns - VERY bright. Wappo better watch out! She's got him covered. The guys from Wakey would probably clean up down here, but we're guerilla skaters and would probably have the 'ol blue boys on our backs if we did the business. Maybe we should do a recce one weekend? Sleep on my sister's floor.
Reckon Paris is better though - there's those parcours guys about to show you the space. When my Dad goes to Centre Pompidou there's all these great buskers - some serious **** Nobody playing anything round here.
Ok back to the park and a few Primos I reckon. Seen no one doing a glimmer of a Rail Stand so time to clean up a bit.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
I watched from Farringdon as Satan fell;
I’ve battled for my soul at Leicester Square;
I’ve laid a ghost with Oystercard and bell;
I’ve tracked the wolf of Wembley to his lair;
I’ve drawn Heathrow’s enchantment in rotation;
at Bank I played the devil for his fare;
I laugh at lesser modes of transportation.
I change at Aldgate East because it’s there.
The Waterloo and City cast its spell;
I watched it slip away, and could not care,
the Northern Line descending into hell
until King’s Cross was more than I could bear;
he left me there in fear for my salvation,
a Mansion House in heaven to prepare:
so why return to any lesser station?
I change at Aldgate East because it’s there.
Three days beneath the earth in stench and smell
I lay, and let the enemy beware:
I learned the truth of tales the children tell:
an Angel plucked me homeward by the hair,
to glory from the depths of condemnation,
to where I started long ago from where
I missed my stop through long procrastination.
I change at Aldgate East because it’s there.
Prince of the buskers, sing your new creation:
the change you ask is more than I can spare;
a change of spirit, soul, imagination.
I change at Aldgate East because it’s there.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 3:29 AM UTC
When I'm seeking shade from a relentless sun,
And brush a rejected leaf off my shoulder,
I feel poetry.
When I brought my girls home,
From hospital, school, a bad night out,
I've experienced poetry.
Walking Front St., or Centennial Park,
While the buskers are busy,
The children are laughing,
The dogs are barking,
I've heard poetry.
If fortunate to espy a shooting star,
Enjoy the fullness of an autumn moon,
Witness the dawn light up my lawn,
Like a diamond mine,
I've seen poetry.
I've tasted poetry on my lips
With kisses and endearing words,
And lingering tastes from what you serve.
Yes, I've savored poetry's flavors.
Who reads poetry.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 9:08 AM UTC
A block from the office
the city is tearing down an overpass.
Today they're beating the **** out of it
with a pneumatic hammer
the size of a freight train.
Its pounding
in time with my heartbeat
like the worlds largest metronome
suspended from the end of a crane.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
I keep wondering
what’s going to happen
to all those buskers and hookers
who peddle their wares under that bridge.
I'm not seeing it though and
no observation means no poetry.
No poetry means no catharsis, and
my guts are full of hornets.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
It’s the great whisky **** of the spirit,
the all-encompassing lack of passion;
the longing for old friends;
the desire to lean on old habits
the chinks in something resembling old armor.
the crease, the seam, the fold.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
There’s this pain in my head;
behind the left eye
where the secrets live.
driving and grief stricken.
(misfire on eight.)
The headache has no name, but
it sings a song.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
As the guitar plucked the buskers strings
The endless space was made of things
For many are the few who sing
The birth of doom one day did spring
The truth I lie through muted speech
Without my arms and many legged reach
My instructor learned I refused to teach
The carnivorous mouth of the vegan peach
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
The city buskers don't speak til six;
After they've stored the aluminum paint,
Their instruments packed,
The clever boxes stacked,
The clink of coins counted.
Now ready for a pint, a blink and stretch.
Flame spitters, robots, Victorian mannequins,
Chimney sweeps, a Little Bo Peep,
All muted on the street.
On the steps I asked,
Which one are you?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
Yeah, said I, *I know what you mean.
I did the same for thirty years.*
(A perfect metaphor, thought I).
No, really, I continued, What's your gig?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
He wasn't being poetic.
Here's a man who stands on his head in a bucket, I said,
More than once.
So many do this on their feet,
Hearing the echo of their own voice,
Shutting off our daily travails
In an insular pail,
Seeing one's reflection distorted,
With little involvement.
He said he learned his trade
Watching the pigs on his father's farm,
And perfected his talent
Watching CNN.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
Maybe if you leave, we can work it out.
I need a permanent blanket of nimbus clouds more oppressive than a Roman Catholic Court.
But, moving to London might convict me back to the cityscape of wasted Fridays and Saturdays.
Because without it, the Betrand Russell in me might just start to wake up. And then I’d remember - there has to be more to life than the 9 to 5 daze.
Washington DC stopped being fun after week two, and now I see it for what it is — a crush of desperate tourists blowing cigarette smoke in your face while you sweat last night’s drinks and Jumbo slice crash.
Anywhere that sells Nutella crepes is pretty sweet, and I love all the kite flyers and buskers festivals. I long ago realized that while Christiania has hundreds of market stalls, they’re all selling the same material things on a Groundhog Day loop: baked goods, stolen bikes, old furniture, cheap phones, and bags of open air hash.
Climbing up Carcassonne, a fortified medieval French town, probably is the best thing ever, but somehow, the two-hour lines to get into Berghain seem more worth it — all that dirt, grunge, and spinning feels as close to Dante’s Inferno; as close to feeling alive as it gets.
But now my Sunday afternoons are spent curled on top of my clean bedsheets, twitching about like a decapitated blue whale - batshit exhausted and depressed but somehow grinning like The Joker, wondering if sleep ever sets.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
Falling pink petals
Plinking my head
A saxophone serenade
Kind of kind of blue
A solitary birch among many hundreds
Of deciduous trees, its paper
Bark scored with age
White among shadows
And the endless breeze takes me up
Into Tiffany-blue sky
Pollen clumps litter the edges of lawn
Calliope streaming from a mared and seahorsed
Carousel dances in my head
Disobedient canine in exodus
Defiant against the silhouette
Of a circled dog
Line diagonally cutting across
Wah wah wah as the ducks in the pond
Are chased away.
Endless verdant day criss-crossed with
Walking paths and robin’s-egg sky punctuated
With drifting cotton shapes.
Brazen squirrels accustomed to the pleasant
Bustle and hustle
Bat City, unopened, in my lap
Mothers feeding children
Hungry mouths to breast.
Seeking out a lemonade stand
Near Winter Street in spring
A yellow burst of sour notes sing
On my palate
A bargain at a fiver on a day as this
Soundtrack peppered by buskers and
An ***** grinder turning the crank on his street ***** and
Birds and
The woo of occasional sirens.
A mother wheeling her child along
In a stroller
Mohawked, tattooed, pierced lip and
She smiles on by.
Ivied brownstones and balconies railed
With wrought iron
End our stay
On this idyllic day
In month of May.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
The Miss Daisy sank
She was two hundred feet tall
With no worries at all
There are buskers all around and about
The swamp bar is clean
For my good friend Jimmy
He's here to play
He's come a long way
He is music to my ears
With my pack of 'Boros and my bourbon glass
He straightens the queers
The music floods me with joy
Like a dark cloud of sunshine
I drink to him
I'm the last to stay
I'm dying to play
***Dauphine cries to the sounds of sunken hope and dread
The sound is buried with dying laughter
The drummer is dead
The band plays on***
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
I feel like taking a tab of acid
and disappearing
to town in my worn suit.
Buskers bathe in the eternal winter,
clamouring sounds at passers-by
until Jericho falls in on itself,
money spilling out of its sides
like a fast food waiter
on his cigarette break.
Trawling through the record shops,
I feel as if I've travelled through time;
each bootleg, a manuscript,
each seven-inch, a sonnet.
Pulling fingers through Venetian sounds,
I have found my place
in the library of New Alexandria.
The pigeons are swollen at the ankles.
Like humans, they are losing height
at the promise of another meal,
at another chance to rifle through the crumb.
School kids are waiting for the bus
as I go walking past.
They're unaware of the ease of tread
they have over land,
unaware of how quickly it can fall
and the scathing jealousy
I feel for each of them.
In eyes wet and wide, I turn to go home,
I walk in the rain, before settling for the bus
and returning to that familiar, lofted view
of the world passing by through a maniac's eyes.
It is only then that the world shifts in focus
and lotus flowers crop up through the carpet,
the world outside has grown far too unreal,
to the point hallucinating makes sense of it all.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
The streets will belong to the beggars and buskers
who'll paint the ivory towers red and
take out the old tuskers who sit and scribe laws in
dusty old books..
..here I shall pause,because I'm not sure of what laws.
But these fossils who will us away,
the same who turn night into a much longer day
and don't pay us no wage
are quite sage about this,
they knew that the 'kiss off' would kiss them away and
have made laws to outlaw the coming of that day.
The buskers and beggars can sit playing chequers and
make Kings on the boards
and on the boards of multinationals where they can
rationalise it all,
they'll make more ivory towers to refill more empty spaces
and more laws to put beggars and buskers
in their places.
But we are used to this krap and so
we sing or we busk for a penny
in our flat cap
and the streets remain the same,
it's just the name that
changes.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
“He is a dreamer; let us leave him – pass.” Julius Caesar I.ii.24
Strident philosophers at Hyde Park Corner
Poor buskers at Queen Victoria’s feet
Chalk artists remaking the pavement as Rome
A Seventh Sister with her folk guitar
These are not dreamers passive in their beds
Or supplicants awaiting permission:
They are the worker bees; they know of pain
And sweat, and sunstroke in the fields - and truth
When a sidewalk artist notes that the Ides
Have come, Caesar indeed should turn to hear
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 10:50 AM UTC
In Dublin's mist-kissed streets, we wander,
Two souls entwined, hearts aflame,
Anam cara, whispered by ancient stones,
A love deeper than the Liffey's flow.
I. Dawn's Embrace
At sunrise, we meet by Ha'penny Bridge,
Where copper pennies shimmer on water,
Your eyes, twin pools of mossy green,
Hold secrets only Dublin's cobbles know.
II. Whispers in Temple Bar
In Temple Bar's lively hum, we dance,
Fiddles and laughter weave our tale,
Your laughter, a melody of joy,
Echoes through centuries of poets' dreams.
III. Trinity's Library of Love
Beneath Trinity's ancient arches,
We read love letters etched in oak,
Your touch, a parchment of longing,
Pages turned by winds from distant shores.
IV. Stolen Kisses on Grafton Street
Grafton Street, where buskers serenade,
Our stolen kisses taste of rain and tea,
Your lips, like Dublin's cobblestone alleys,
Hold the promise of forevermore.
V. Cliffs of Howth, Our Sacred Cliff
On Howth's cliffs, we stand as one,
Wind-whipped and salt-kissed,
Your heartbeat, a rhythm of tides,
Pulls me closer to the edge of eternity.
VI. Guinness Pints and Shared Dreams
In snug pubs, we raise our Guinness pints,
To love, to laughter, to Dublin's magic,
Your whispers, like foam on stout,
Intoxicate my senses, leave me spellbound.
Feb 17, 2024
Feb 17, 2024 at 10:47 AM UTC
The homeless ask for change
Not only the spare pence pieces you have in your pocket,
But the change that can make them sheltered and warm.
The buskers ask for change
Not only compensation for their musical vibes
But the kind of coinage for a different kind of awareness
Atmospheric positive energy
And peace
The travelers ask for change
Aid their way through the world to gain a bit more perspective
So they may prove others wrong when making horrendous generalisations
Or to see everything with better lenses
The activists ask for change
Breaking through social etiquette
Politeness is overruled by injustice
They take the streets their own suggestions
Vocal with rage…
The man in the suit doesn’t want your change
He wants your notes
Hard earned money from your wallet to feed his own
Grown grotesquely fat with gluttony
He wants your sense of self worth blinded with what he envisions
Making incisions into your mind
Of how you should act
And why you should cry.
Forget what’s inside.
Become a player on the stage of the world and fail to remember that you’re just another teenage girl too impressionable to hide
Rather then see you thrive he wants profit
Leaving you high and dry
Thirsty for nothing you can actually buy.
I ask for change.
I ask for the power to transform within me
To give the change all these people are asking of me.
Maybe I’ve not got the money,
But I can empty myself with all I have
And see if it makes a difference…
Kiss the man in the suit goodbye.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
it is my mother’s birthday.
we stood and watched
punch and judy yesterday,
while god was all behind us.
he bashed, we laughed,
he bashed, laughed more,
he bashed.
children were removed
from the vicinity,
others stayed.
incorrect musings
regrading life and buskers.
pastel buildings mask
the incorecctness of it all.
it is my mothers birthday.
sbm.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC
he has
blue eyes
and fluffy hair
and stands stiff
in the town square
he gives money to buskers
and smiles at people who pass
he buys me coffee
and looks into my eyes to see my past
he knows what i am
and he knows what ive done
but he said that i
am his only one
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
If I could visit magical Kyiv,
In the bright effulgence of spring
I would feast my eyes on the
Architectural splendors
That mirror her people’s sturdy souls.
Then I’d stroll along the Dnieper
Where children frolic in cool waters
I’d hear buskers playing fabled songs
That sprang from ancestral souls.
The intoxicating aroma of fresh borsht,
Meats and pastries would so allure
That I would gravitate like a magnet
To a charming café to savour each delight.
Sunflowers and trees would be blossomed full
And cheerful birdsongs would grace the air.
The streets would be a blur of bikes and autos -
All a-scurry with the bustle of daily enterprise.
I would exchange the required hryvnia
For a chair at the Municipal Opera
To weep or laugh with Bohéme or Zauberflöte
Or perhaps a Shevchenko work or two.
I close my eyes in prayer for the peace
That all Ukrainians are meant to have.
My burning soul is with you always
And aches to tell you, face to face
Jul 1, 2022
Jul 1, 2022 at 3:30 PM UTC