Harmonicahelps.….. from a contented Busker.

  With James Gregory

  The natives had a custom Once every five years A beautiful maiden would Be sacrificed to the Falls The Giant Cataract. Some half mile from their village And fields of maize. The Falls, a reminder Of the attitude of the Great Spirit. Powerful, unstoppable, sovereign Opening or withholding  Clouds with rains for the fields. Three candidates chosen by Band Council, and then The drawing of lots. This year sweet Gentle Fawn Got the go ahead. Her Father, one of the Elders Was overwhelmed. Teary eyed. The procession down to water’s edge Had the usual drumming Step dancing and, ornate feathering Baskets of produce and wild fruit To be thrown into the river. A canoe newly fashioned Never before used. Received young Fawn. And she was pushed out. At first the coasting was gentle. No paddle, nothing of man In the direction of this watercraft. Speed picked up a little As the main and terrible current  Took hold voraciously And with steamy roaring.. Father could hold back No more. Gr...

  Sunday morning. Dark. Scrambled eggs hit the spot. Cold water kept in refrigerator. Looking up comments on poetry One lonely young woman spoke up. Said thanks. Reflecting on an isolated Live-alone existence. Our exchange was tremendous. Major reason why I blog Develop websites and videos Busk with harmonicas Out on the street. Remember a guy who Dropped his bike to enter The pharmacy Rexall. Came back out teary eyed We started to talk. He said that he was so lonely. Said the music seemed just like MEDICINE. He recently had started Opening up. He then pumped away, smiling. I knew a little more clearly Why I was there. Post COVID hammering. It is just to acknowledge Listen. Give a damn.  Evidently.

 

 

 

 

 

  I saw the crescent. You saw the whole  of the Moon brilliant beautiful women doing their job with style.

 

  Day full of errands Parked on Belmont Ave. Digesting chicken shawarma With lettuce and green olives Leafing through a book On Leonard Cohen, poet And songwriter. Dance me to the End of Love

  Things are getting rough Around here Twelve of us still Committed and serving. But the City Grandest in our long history Turning sour toward The Carpenter. The storyteller The encourager The healer. Says He is Son of God. We say so too. But few others would. With us. Religion holds a rope Around the throat. Doesn't stop Jesus, though. He gets up from the PASSOVER COUCH. Washes our feet. Yes, He the Leader Does the needful job. As if Servant of all. Washes our feet. Refreshes us. Whattaguy. .

She was heavy- Ish. Athletics at public school Were a no-no Her plumping rolls Would jiggle As slim cheerleader-like Girl's looked eyes rolling. Nevertheless she married well For Harry had seen The light, fairness and laughter. The two were presently At a concert of Splendid proportions. Andre Rieu in Maastricht, Holland. Her movements were happy Fingers pointed Arms waving as if Free and weightless. Eyes a-twinkle. As Harry looked on.

 

  Fishing   On The Susquehanna In July by  Billy  Collins I have  never  been  fishing  on the Susquehanna or on any  river  for that matter to be  perfectly  honest. Not in July or any month have I had the  pleasure  -- if it is a  pleasure  -- of  fishing  on the Susquehanna. I am more  likely  to be found in a  quiet  room like this one -- a  painting  of a  woman  on the wall, a bowl of  tangerines  on the  table  -- trying to  manufacture  the sensation of  fishing  on the Susquehanna. There is  little  doubt that  others  have been fishing on the Susquehanna, rowing  upstream  in a  wooden  boat, sliding the oars  under  the water then  raising  them to drip in the light. But the  nearest  I have ever come to fishing on the Susquehanna was one...

 

 

  And hence, STRONG.

  In a cave with drawings A drum beats out hope Threatenings outside. Seemingly vanquished. In a meadow Sheep bleating While one young man David. Frightens away loneliness With voice and lyre. Round a campfire Breathing easy Wagon train west. A story is told Of heroism and storms And farms only Found in dreams. Art. Yes art The rest is just Heartless Detail and data.

 

 

 

It is the eleventh round Again the chemo Grand River H. The second home for Twenty six months now. Technicians know The first name. Always smiling But in a genuine way. And you smile back. No more car selling...GM make The late night stamina The Saturdays The hopefuls with Mediocre credit scores The chances taken with clients Who looked straight on To you. But here in this place Comes Dennis Thirteen years old Leukemia And Denny a high school Wrestler. Now on the sidelines Giving only the moral support To buddies and Coach. You, car guy need To see the teen Persevere Smile Reiterate some so-so joke. Come back for more. Also...you have invested Some Gospel accounts With undeniable Odds-challenging courage and compassion In Jesus Christ, THE MAN Penultimate. Remembering Psalm 71. The eleventh round challenge. Right here...now In your face, Gus. Attaboy.

  She hides in undergrowth island on the  lake victoria park. Frigid. mate makes a bit more fuss. showing his face graceful swooping neck. for dogwalkers or kids colourfully Bundled up As Mom prescribed. Valentines Day. Canada Geese down aways Make the usual ruckus. For a pecking order hard won. And for the sex allure Bringing goslings But still months To wait. Ships of state. All.

  A worldwide movement launched by simple half-blind New Orleans busker Grandpa Elliott. Music mellows many hearts. Loving his baritone voice; his wailing harmonicas. His smiling friends gathered for good.

 

  I  find  it hard to go  outside To meet the  Human  Race Some   still  wear masks Their talk is scarce And  fears  stay on  their  face. A  strange  civility that sponsors Stay alone. Keep  those  six feet And do your part. Keep King  Health  on his Throne. We skip the church The games, the clubs And  weddings  are so slight. We bury Kin indecently And  spurn  the  parks  in fright. The  residue  of all this muck Is hard to disengage For  fellowship  polite and clean And  earning  safe a wage. Yes we must  glean  the wage. How  could  we get to this drab place The fun lost and the friends And  ZOOM  is such a  measly  way To  cheer  or make amends. Sure hope this  mishmash  ends

 

 

  Beautifully taking messages from Psalm 84. Twila worshipping  brings us to another Place of delight. And we must listen heartily Arise, my soul arise.

  Hospital  Sanctuary. Interfaith. Yesterday pleasant Muslim couple were prayin here on their carpets. We kept quiet. Thankfully for us arrangements are almost concluded for transfer to Freeport Hospital. Next step/transitional before Long Term Care unit opens and we get the call for Hilary"s own spot and setup with possessions. Phew.     The Hourd Homestead, years back, Thornton Ave. London. Parents Betty and Charlie. Always kind to me. Hilary was launched with Love and laughter.

  The classic Film, The Darkest Hour (Gary Oldman) .

A brief interlude of British courage and commitment. Rescuing 350k lives from the beaches and piers of France. Churchill's brave choice together with the Admiralty. Saving an army to defend their sceptered Isle. Civilian smaller boats

 

 

She hides in undergrowth Island on Lake Victoria Park is frigid. Mate makes a bit more fuss. Showing his face And gracious swooping neck. For dog walkers to see Or kids colorfully Bundled up this Mid February morning. Valentines Day. Canada Geese down aways. Make their usual cacaphone For the pecking order And for sex allure Bringing gosling on board. But still months To wait. Ships of state. All. And the Park just abides As per decades constant.

 

 

 

 

  See how we play. Or Phil, whichever...

  Twas Bob Struke factory workmate who turned me on to Riverdance. His mother was Irish and raised in Northern Ontario. As a senior citizen she taught community line dancing. And loved it.

 

 

Had been a concert singer Enthralling countless hearts Encores  and Bowing Gratitude But marriage tore apart. He loved the frigid Northland A borealis view. He built their little cabin. Her garden blessed it too. But times of melancholy Would put her back on stage If only in imaginings. Though wrinkles spoke of age She'd bow to crowds Who worshipped. If only in the mind. Outside a tramp would marvel Soon leaving Camp behind. The train tracks Called him yonder. Her voice lost in the wind. (With thanks for this image from poet Robert Service.)

 

 

11years now at the Home Came here with Jack after a bad fall In the residence Of years. But he lasted short time. Too big a man for short beds near blindness frustrated woodcarver's hands. Staff found her CONGENIAL FUNNY ENGAGING INSIGHTFUL SONGSTRESS. Until loose connections Set in. Memory got up And left. Started talking To Jack's portrait. Daily. As his mother Velma Had done with Roy's At Marian Villa. https://sites.google.com/site/conversationabove/conversation-blair

 

 

Huey Long, Kingfisher

  She was beautiful Long blonde hair, straight Pink summer dress and sandals. Twenty fivish. Standing next to a guy Trying to sleep in a Cardboard box Beside his grocery cart. Perhaps he was sort of A mentor for street life Yong forties unshaven. Nothing sexual,  one thought  Just a Buddy In her newfound  bind. She could not see Developments of coming weeks. Months. Loss of teeth. Messed hair Skin lesions. No footwear. Somebody steals her purple Crocs. Dress traded for baggy slacks Sweatshirt that read One of the Great Ones. Bodily attacks by Leering predators. Or jealous vixens. How did it start? Some bad marks At college Arguments with family Ensuing drug use. Wanting to be Her own Woman. Yeah right... And now Too stunned and tired And self-loathing To go back.