Hey friends,
I heard broken notes echoing down the road while I was out from work today, I followed the trail and I found this old, brown man playing his trumpet in shoreditch park in the little bit of sun that peeked through the sky...what a delight,...so I thought I'd share a 'free-verse' poem that popped out after thinking on that beautiful sight...hope you enjoy it...
Playing blue notes to a grey sky
Just don't feel right.
But playing 'em to the deepest blackest night that hums with emptiness,
Now that seems more fitting.
Or punching them in-between notes that
dance between the cracks in your keys,
Into a sky so blue,
well now that seems more like it, more suited to an old eccentric like you
With rough hands,
Rough from makin' them valves jump so high,
Rough from picking up dreams that I let die,
From not letting go of that old-tin thought that to sing,
to sing might just be enough,
...enough for him...
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