WE ALL SEE THE SAME MOON

He had a Kawai baby grand piano in his living room
It wasn’t a Bosendorfer, Steinway, or Yamaha
But he had a baby grand and my roommate a long time ago
Had an inherited Steinway with real ivory keys, she let me play it
Play way into the night, a nurse now, and a music school graduate
With her inherited Steinway, and he is a psychologist with his Kawai
Laura Rain played Blues on Whyte in Edmonton, and
The Edmonton Bluesfest; I heard she played Buddy Guy’s
I first heard Monkey Junk at the Salmon Arm Folk and Roots Festival
Playing on a side stage; Taj Mahal headlined on the mainstage
My sister had a Taj Mahal album in the ‘70’s; and Monkey Junk
Can fill a moderate concert hall and they’ll always work in Canada
My friend the psychologist got a friend of his to cast his wedding rings
And having lived in Southwest Florida for decades could always get gigs
He wouldn’t be able to fill a concert hall, but there weren’t any, anyways
Just the symphony hall, and I heard B. B. King play there, once
And I’m a Swedenborgian minister of a small, aging, dwindling church
An accomplished piano player in Nashville asks me spiritual questions
And critiques recordings of my original music free of charge
He plays cruise ships and exclusive summer resort hotel bars, solo,
With an illustrious past, having performed with industry giants,
Making a living in an undependable business.  We’re all making a living.
And there’s a place for art in life, however life ends up construed
Whatever life is called, or identity defined, be it by a career, aspiration
Passion or calling, writing on a business card, how others know you
Like my friend with the Kawai, or his friend who cast his wedding rings
Or the music graduate with her inherited Steinway, who is a nurse
B. B. King, Taj Mahal, Monkey Junk, Laura Rain, my musical friends,
My musical inclinations, the thousands I spent on instruments
I, a Swedenborgian minister at a small, aging, dwindling church,
Still happy, contented with my life, contented with my inclinations
And their manifestation, my pay, the recognition of my peers, my friends,
My musical instruments and their exercise, my career, my attainments,
Those I yet pursue in these advanced years, the lingering dreams I cherish
The moderate drive moving my intentions through happy reflections

PLOUGHMEN DIG NOT FOR ME

Businessmen do not drink my wine
The man in the suit has not bought a new car
From any profit he made off my dreams
Though dreams I have, have dreamed, dream

I’ve imbibed conventional wisdom’s grasp on the vitality of dreams
That dreams make a life out of otherwise existence
Aethereal dreams awaken into materiality, matter’s reality;–all real
Nobody can doubt the reality of a dream and live

One doesn’t dream in terms written by dollars and status
Defined in the lexicon legislated by ledger books
Businessmen withdraw from intangibles that weigh golden hopes
Dream reality resists materialism and yet materializes

Whole symphonies deconstruct as ones and zeros in a cloud somewhere
And Bach’s C-Moll Passacaglia is pulses of air
But digital scans and air differentials don’t explain to ears
The mystery that is a melody—even if construed through standing wave proportions

Sometimes my pen dreams in ink dots materializing on a musical staff
The keys on my piano reverberate beats my heart feels
Manifesting the immaterial into the physical world
While air waves question what they, themselves, are doing

At other times, words grow out of my consciousness
Planted in ink and tree pulp tending to a poem’s making
My pen glides across the blank, white sheet in dark lines
To become a dream of some distant reader in my mind: a virtual reality

Nobody pays me for my dreams.  No.
I grunt and sweat under a heavy timeclock on my back
No ploughman digs earth for me
I’ve dug my own footings on which the whole world is built for me

My grandmother told me I wasn’t very good at making money
When I was an impoverished grad student
Even now, I don’t make much money, nor have creditable prospects
Yet I’m good at making, dreaming, making dreams live

Making for me is as making money for businessmen
I’m good at living without much money, without much interest in making money
Dreams pay me more than dollars, when I have money
I lack really for nothing but dreams fulfill

SHATTERED COMPLACENCY

It can be surprising

How many doors can stay shut on a guy

How many things they won’t let you do

That you thought you could do

How many plans fall through

Goals don’t materialize

Dreams evaporate

How hard it can be to keep going

 

How sad a guy can get

 

Revenue streams abruptly stop flowing

While the clock ticks on the next bill due

But you are going to keep going

Keep trying to find that open door

A sign of the times, of a guy’s status, statistics

Cast-off ships that have likely sailed their last

But still are sea-worthy

Wisdom no one seems to inquire of

Talent not tapped

My cell-phone silent, but for Facebook notifications

TIME

Time

Something to be filled

Not enough of

Passes unnoticed, unpondered

Work, family, sleep

Filled fulfilling aspirations

Perfecting, learning, creating

Time

How we fill the time we have

Young people chase their dreams

My friends who partied with me

When we were young

Went to school, found a career, retired

–I’ve watched whole lives

Career, family, retirement, death—

And it all means, has meaning

Means a lot

Some just get by

Passing time

Pastime, time passed

Time management

Time: “My most precious commodity”

Not enough ours in the day

Racing the clock

The Reaper

Time, pastime, time passed

Time out