if i could sing (my 3 p’s)
If I could sing
You would find me on Beale Street every Friday night
And when Stormy Monday resonated from my lips
All my cousins with soul would close their eyes while gently swaying
And their burdens would ease for just a bit
You would find me at the Blue Door
And when I belted out This Land is Your Land
All my freedom fighter cousins would join right in
Dreaming of the American promise that already passed them by
You would find me at The Troubadour in between twilight hours
And when I sang For What It’s Worth
All my free loving hippie cousins would throw up two fingers
Pushing their hope of peace for all the world to embrace
You would find me at Red Rocks on a cool summer night
And when I echoed Truckin out and up beyond the mountain tops
All my dead head cousins would lay down their veggie burritos,
Light up, take another toke, and wish tomorrow would never come
You would find me at The Full Throttle Saloon on a hot August night
And when Born to Be Wild boomed from my lungs
All my biker cousins would present a one finger salute
Smash their brothers in the mouth and howl “let’s ride” with all their might
You would find me at the Garden every Saturday night at 9:00 o-clock
And when my set came to a close with Piano Man
All my Yankee cousins in the mood for melody
Would sing along, while shedding a nostalgic tear
You would find me every Tuesday at Tootsie’s Orchard Lounge
And when I let go Up Against the Wall in the key of E Major
All my red neck cousins would slam their Wild Turkey chaser
Yell out M-O-T-H-E-R and give Betty Lou Thelma Liz a passionate kiss
If I could sing
You would find me every day standing on a random street corner
And when I crooned Loving Her Was Easier, with a sparkle in my eye
All my cousins of every race and creed would know
My heart belongs to the one who grabbed it in 79, and never let it go
Yes, if I could just sing
But alas, I cannot sing, not one bit
And that is why you will find me the third Thursday of every month
At the Lunchbox Café, reciting my piddly, pedestrian, poetry
My three P’s
three seasons
We are all born with three seasons to live
Some will survive two and few but one
But those that are lucky, will occupy all three
The first is grand
Filled with discovery and lust
For answers, for experiences, for excitement, for love
Our superhuman bodies weather the fight
Our misdeeds are quickly forgiven
Our future is still a distant picture
We manage to live large, with little in our pockets
Finding our way, birthing our path
Season two comes upon us suddenly
By force or self-inflicted, regardless
The weight of responsibility and sensibility
Burdens our body, checks our freedom
Our routine begins, our lust dulls
Needs and wants and happiness mutate
Living with little in our pockets, now robs our comfort
Our future must be planned and primed
Hard work becomes our daily grind
For without this, season two will be an eternity
The years will pass, our bodies become breakable
And we will never see season three
Though if done fittingly, our reward is the third
Filled with discovery and lust
For answers, for experiences, for excitement, for love
Our pockets are bountiful, and we live large
Our youth is long gone, but the wine has aged well
the world needs another poet
Some say,
All the good poets have come and gone.
Say this isn’t so,
For our world needs another poet
One who will see those who cannot be seen
One who will listen to those who cannot be heard
One who will speak for those who cannot speak
One who’s imagery will be grasped by the naive
One who’s wisdom will be fathomed by the oblivious
One who’s brilliance will move the steadfast
One who’s pen will conquer injustice, oppression, bigotry
One who’s pen will purge hate, greed, fear
One who’s pen will fuse the disparate
For our world needs “this” poet.
Some say,
There is a poet yet to be discovered, one who will change the world
Say this is so.
lines
Blood lines, family lines, no lines
Blood lines define our pedigree.
Perhaps important for dogs, horses, bluebloods, and their wannabes.
But do blood lines make us who we are?
Family lines define our connections.
Those we love, cherish, trust, and lend our time.
But do family lines make us who we are?
No lines make us who we are.
We are what we make of ourselves.
Shaped by experiences, tugged at by our thoughts, revealed by our actions
Erasing the who am I?
Stating the who I am.
Only then, will we be.