Posts Tagged ‘poem’

SHE ENTERS MY DREAM

She Enters My Dream

She sits by my side, watching me sleep
Outstretched hand brushing my cheek
Starting to stir, I feel a now
familiar warmth caressing my brow
Twixt wake and sleep, eyelids flutter
She enters my dream
like reaching through water
Ripples of her felt on my skin
Tender strokes on my brow
still feel them now
I do not want to leave that place
of peach-soft hands loving my face
Stay in the dream, feel her touch
It can only be love,
when touch matters that much

 

WHEN THE OLD FOLKS COME TO DANCE

We’re passin’ up the rest home, we’re not stopping at the doc’s
We’re not headed for a funeral, we’ve not been measured for a box
My passengers are Mothers, Grandmas and Pas and Aunts
When I take the old folks out to the dance

Watch your step Aunt Betty, Mrs. Richmond take my hand
Granny Shafer, go on in and save two tables near the band
Y’all turn back on your hearing aids so you can hear the man
Welcome you old folks to the dance.

As Merle Haggard’s Mama tries to steer him right
Widow Stephens gets to cloggin, and she is quite a sight
Everyone is gettin’ with it, their faces bright with grins
When the old folks start to dance.

Grandpa Carter stands stock still, taps his walker to the beat
It’s been three months since the stroke, for him  tonight’s a real treat
the rumors say that he and Aunt Faye were seen holding hands
On the way to the old folk’s dance

Through songs of love and loss, and booze and bosses and benders
Orthopedic heels kick up the dust, and thumbs hook in suspenders
String ties sway as couples sashay, Lindy-hop and prance
At the friday night old folks dance.

The band is playing their last set as we drive off the lot,
Some stare out the window, the rest asleep or deep in thought
Memories abound of  lost partners, spouses, and good friends
On our way from the old folks dance
I wonder if any seats will be empty next week,
When I bring the old folks to the dance.

He Played For His CIty

 

The street emptied for dinner, the saxman stayed
though few stopped to listen, and fewer still paid
Stick-figure frame leaned against the old wall
he drained the spit-valve, and polished the bell.

He left the case open for any dropped coin
but it wasn’t the money that kept him going.
It was the city he loved for whom he played
In that magic hour between night and day

From balconies above he felt Louis’ stare
King Oliver’s smile, Bechet’s hard glare
he took a deep breath, put the reed to his lips
And with talent and passion, blew his city a kiss

A flowering vine of sound climbed the walls
traced iron grills, caressed broken windows
with scents of love, passion, and musk
real jazz filled the street just before dusk

He riffed on slaves and cotton and voodoo, too
Bordellos and speakeasies mixed into the roux.
Smuggling and muggings and hurricane terror
were a part of his jazz’s unique, spicy flavor.

No one’s seen him in years, some say he’s gone
Some say he changed hats, and mows other’s lawns
Listen close, though, at the end of the day
on a street in Tremé, you may hear him play.