The Man With The Golden Fingers

You serenade me from the avenues of the past,

calling on the notes of a moment’s perfect hum.

From the streets of my running;

breaking rules and anchors and chains with every flying step.

We were tangled up in satin sheets and scrawny arms

made of lust but lacking love and endurance.

I was too wild for you wasn’t I?

Untamed, a child without border or boundary

that you couldn’t possess.

You walked under a sun of pretense,

honoring sophistication you didn’t really have,

and I lay in your arms stripped bare of any falsity,

by choice

and you couldn’t’ grasp that straw of devotion,

couldn’t make sense of it could you?

I was too simple for your worldly charms.

But your golden saxophone was a bridge

that swayed with rhythm and vibration

across the waters of chaos and tragedy

where we pulled and tugged each other back and forth

until we fell......

To the death of us, in the churning rapids

of regret, only to pay the price of pleasure

in coins of pain for years to follow.

The trip up and the trip down were costly in our

gondola of giddiness,

swaying there suspended on a level with god’s trees...

We wingless humans knowing not how to fly...

But we survived didn’t we, you and I?

You the musician and me the poet...

You still making music with your golden fingers,

and your blessed breath,

me still playing hop scotch with words,

scratching out prose with a pen

You call to me from the avenues of the past

and I come out to stroll down

a very vivid memory lane,

skipping on the cobblestones of youths laughter and her pain,

where we opened our hearts wide for a month

to play a little make believe with love’s powerful game.

Reviews

[MOON]

This is a beautiful serenade to love and heartbreak something's leave an indelible mark.

[Ed Hart]

you to yours, me to mine...and yet, look what we have found, latterly