into the mystic

[saw]

van the man laid it down
woven blue-eyed soul
placed over me like a proud papa
covering his newborn son
with a crocheted blanket of love
gravelly voice knitted by thick hands
sea-weathered and worn

and I believed the saxophone,
was sure it was a foghorn
could even see the tugboats
float by when I closed my eyes
deep down inside my easy chair
they were steaming up the river
and I could feel the goose bumps rise.

the damp morning air slipped
inside my collar and I was there
standing on that massachusetts shore
sober and aware that music was my ticket,
a free pass to take me anywhere I wanted
to go, and I knew that when I chose to escape,
when I opted to blow this popsicle world

that no one would be able to find me

[constantine]

excellent. art transcends the popsicle world

[the mingo]

[short timer]

I'm sitting on the dock of the bay reading your poem and thinking

“Music is not a matter of life or death...
It's much more important than that.” - Unknown

[justwalt]

such a nice impression

eyes closed... mind open,
the salt smell, and poof... y're gone

I spent a year in the old whaling town of Stonington... CT,
working on a home 8 doors down from the old lighthouse, and I'd
sometimes walk down to the point a take my lunch...

imagining the history, and trying to get lost in it

[saw]

thanx gents, enjoyed your comments

[dadio]

One of your best.