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
WE ALL SEE THE SAME MOON
24 May 2021 Leave a comment
in Blog Tags: aging, art, BB King, Bosendorfer, Buddy Guy, dreams, Kawai, Monkey Junk, music, Nashville, poem, poetry, Salmon Arm, spirituality, Steinway, Swedenborg
PLOUGHMEN DIG NOT FOR ME
22 Dec 2020 Leave a comment
in Blog Tags: art, dreams, making, material, money, music, poem, real, reality
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
08 Aug 2019 Leave a comment
in Blog Tags: doors, dreams, goals, jobs, plans, sad, statistics, talent
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
24 Apr 2019 Leave a comment
in Blog Tags: aspirations, dreams, meaning, pastime, poetry, retirement, the Reaper, 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