In verse and in song, in prose soaring and long,
His grandfather told stories in village and town.
In swales and plains and mountains he roamed
Led by the sun where the weather fit his clothes.
Traveling south in the winter, north when hot,
West to east, east to west was as good as not.
Stopping to sing, to tell a story for a pence,
To lift a draught, to give a laugh, to court a wench.
His voice was pure and amber and sweet.
At every stop, townsfolk gathered round to hear him sing,
And listen to stories of presidents and kings,
Knights in armor and ladies with braids,
Cracked mirrors and iguanas and damsels afraid.
Now he, the grandson, hitches rides in trucks and cars
Carrying a knapsack, bottled water and two guitars.
Cities and suburbs and townships he covers
Led by visions of stardom and being discovered.
He croons in clubs and casinos and small town bars.
Stories he tells are of missed chances and second-rate stars.
In cities, he plays on the streets for nightly rent
For dimes and quarters that are quickly spent.
Few stop to listen, many more stride past
Talking on cell… Continue reading