Tag Archives: buskers

A Moment

Buskers on a busy street

I unflow from the crowd

Static against marchers and sideways walkers

Finding peace inside a throng

These two are musicians

Playing a neverending medley of eclectic tunes

I watch as crowds turn into individuals

A woman in a sundress catches my eye

We exchange a look

In which I pay homage with a smile

She accepts my offering with its twin

Disappearing around the corner

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2013

 

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Guitar

Softly, he played his guitar

Not for me or anyone else

But for himself

Riffing on jazz themes

Smiling in amusement

As his practice made perfect

Sense for a grey day

Sliding through gentle waves

A wash of sound cleansed the air

Resonating as deep as ocean

Ephemeral as a seagull’s cry

 

 

David Trudel    ©  2013

 

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Top

I walked myself out of the buzz of a long day

A driving day where the highway crawls into your nerves

Each turn of the tires transmitting itself into some neural pathway

To lay fresh asphalt in the back of your brain

Upcoasting with amusement park thrills past beaches and castles

Into the sprawl of the Bay where highway lanes proliferate like noxious weeds

Filled with accelerating tension I’m soothed by the calm voice of the GPS

Who deftly selects lane changes until rush hour bogs us down

I found myself forced over a bridge that takes half a forever to cross and recross

Finally I reached a disappointment of a hotel and recovered my legs

Between Chinatown and Union Square

Found a bistro in the French Quarter with a jazz trio

Where I fed appetites to satiation

Then pounded some sidewalk to soak up the city

Digging the architecture

Recognizing Frank Lloyd Wright’s signature from a block away

Chilling in the sliding drift of crowded sidewalks

Absorbing looks and feels into placement location

Upscale and updone, I thought

Unbuzzed I headed back to the hotel

As I reached the corner a sliver of a plaintive wail pulled at my ear

A horn crying in the night

I turned and followed the sound

Found this dude and his horn

In a storefront alcove where he poured forth honeyed balm

I dropped a few bucks

After a while he stopped for a smoke break

We talked

“Name’s Top” he said when I asked

“Well Topcat really, but I’ve been around so long everybody just shortens it”

We talked some more like old friends catching up

Said goodnight and walked away

As I climbed into bed

A lick and a curl crept through the transom

Top was crying his blues in the night

And I slept soundly under his ragged blanket

 

 

David Trudel     © 2013

 

 

 

2 Comments

Filed under Poetry