Harmonicahelps.….. from a contented Busker.

 For the likes of me. The voice of the King is that of Billy Connolly. Perfect fit.

 

  Starts with peekaboo And a sweet Baby’s crib. The Child loves the game, the humour And the sense of being Worthy of attention Of following. Now…advance some Thirty years or so. A trim young woman Lives alone and In orderly fashion. Her job is online In a converted second bedroom/office. She walks her dachshund Twice daily, any sort of weather. Reluctant to greet fellow walkers. Although some she will encounter often. Vegetarian. Ate her last red meat When she was nineteen. Still allows eggs and cheese And thin crust pizza. Produce on top. White wines, shared with no one. Moved to a different City at 22. She reads Anne Perry, George Elliot  Atwood stories and Layton poems, Canadian Geographics. Subscribed. No newspapers. Doesn’t even enjoy a radio. She has pathetic self-esteem. Finds ways to hide. Disappear into the bushes. Say nary a word. Calls it an economy. Who is there anyways to say with a smile “I see you, oh yes I really do, and that is important.  Now tell me something. I am

  My wife and I can’t have kids…we have white carpet.

Pleasant young woman. Usually some time to chat. Receives for Mental Health Section. Does it handily. And beautifully. Represents a workforce truly interested in the wellbeing of patients, their visiting loved ones and the process of recovery or stabilization. I leave the Hospital to affirm and uplift others in simple and hands-on ways. Some of it will happen in my busking on city streets. Some of it urges personal change. On leaving the  last time I met a husband named Drago, a Croat. Our conversation including matters of HIS FAITH were, rich. We departed as friends. I gave him my busking information card (name, phone, email, website link).

 

 

 

 

   

 

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lJ8ZQ__4kI  

He was the troubadour without equal. Died way too young.

 

 

Jackie had an afternoon Plunk in the middle of A three game weekend. Away. Loaned a nice Plymouth And hit some backroad. Four down and 55 mph Made for a nice breeze. Even though two-ish In the afternoon  was hottest. Passing some live oak With elegant Spanish moss Ultimately cotton And more cotton. Fifty five or sixty pickers. Cloudless sky. No one spoke. Throats parched and stinging. Heavy but silent breaths. No one dared approach The fancy car at the fence With the unwrinkled nigger. Until one old woman Faded aqua skirt Saw the gesture of Smacking dust off  his pant leg. It was Jackie Jackie Robinson. Yeah dassright, number 42. She often got games On her radio.  Friends on the porch Joined her. Lemonade, pork rinds. Dramatic announcer. And their ambassador- servant. Robinson. Bunch came to fence. Laughing Slapping Stealing away the time. Forgetting all disparities. 42 felt something like Home.

 

 

 

 

  And then Kim Carnes with her Bette Davis. Ferocious.

  Remember the sixties Rented Marquis tent And crystal wear And waiting staff. Please no blacks. We are not avant gard Or Liberal We just want a big blowout that Would do Mamma And Daddy proud. But then, they are gone. And the sixties almost gone With them. A key was turned when JFK GOT SHOT taking a drive With his pretty wife in the back seat. Soon wearing lots of his blood On her pink outfit. Holding his big head And the life oozing out. The life that had Sustained PT109. Just as Jimmy Dean had sung it. Had looked down the snout  Of Kruschev warships Calling the bluff while the Whole world watched and admired. The guts of the rich Catholic From Cape Cod and family football. That was our Boy Our rosy time of Camelot. With lessening impressions of  The muck of Guadalcanal The detainment of Jews In Hitler’s hostels of renown. Or Bay of Pigs fiasco. Then came LBJ And stubborn resolve A big ranch And earlobes to match.

  And then there’s this guy Pinette…Chicago roars at the food jokes.  

 

 

 

I’m singing And the chill and slush Don’t count. The people passing Wonder why I’m out. They tell me Get inside. You will be sick My child. They know not Of the boilers Song compiles. The warmth of  Praising King of kings To all. The steps for full Reversal from the Fall. The chance to harmonize. One and all.

 

  And the Mall for chocolate. And a pretty smiling face at work. Seizing the day.

I'm Tom Robinson   l only means to Put in decent day's work Setting in ma pew On Sunday gathering Singing songs of Zion. Specially likes Swing low sweet chariot. And Brotha Luther's comments. Now eight months back  Started collecting garbage And yard clean Fo some po' white folks. They's Allas sneering at me. Daughter woman acts might strange Givin me eyes. Makin work harder. Chatting me up Til heads a spanning  And mopping gits all mixed up. Now two days back Sheriff comes Asking questions About my intentionsl Toward dat girl. Arresting. Handcuffed. Putting behind bars. Charging rape And indecency. Done no such thing. Brings a body Meansome anxiety. an trouble. Lawd whatsa black Fella ta do?

 

 

 

 

 

 

My colleague had provided XX a copy of her incapacity for LTC decisions when she had made her incapable for LTC decisions. We unfortunately are not involved for paperwork regarding incapacity for health care decisions or finances. The hospital doctor would need to be contacted by family.   We can talk more about this when we meet up today at 2PM at the hospital lobby. C. T.

 

  Polly Challenges Philip Seymour Hoffman a burned out actor. Walter Mitty