Harmonicahelps.….. from a contented Busker.

  Nashville rocks in God's presence. And He is pleased.

 

 

 

 

  Grandpa Elliott

 

  You will not stop Take time Meditate Expect Heavenly whispers Or chapter and verse Rehearsed. All must come through The head Eyes ears and nose. Trusting those And those alone. Sucks to be you. Frustrating too.

 

  Poem: Takes you to a mangrove swamp.  Gators, coons, egrets.  And popup catfish bubbles.  Motor launch wakes.  Smell of fish bream..  Fish bait shack of  Detective Dave Robichaud  Kicked out of New Orleans PD  For indiscretions together with  His best buddy Clete Purcell.  They get their man, in crazy ways.  When Clete is not busy  Chasing bail jumpers as P. I.  Or seeking out his  Illegitimate Daughter.  Or some new motel fling. Hot short-term vixen. Applying his massive size  And scarred fists.  When the job requires.  Pink Cadillac. Po’Boy sandwiches. Office out of a lunchbox. Dave is an alcoholic.  Knows the drill   Has friends who help.  And also with the  Horrific dreams of terrifying  Tunnels of Viet Nam.  There will usually be some  Rich local family holding  Most of the chips.  Living, eating, driving, dealing  Fancy and entitled. Play acting.  Perhaps wife was an old Flame of Dave’s. Drunk, he piled up  A lot of that kind of mess. Sober he landed upon all of the answers.  A

   An  auditorium  mostly used  For Seniors, cribbage,  bumper  pool  Guitar lessons, book club, yoga.  Well sort of.  But  Thursday  nights at eight.  Talent,  readings  of all sorts.  Song.  Even a  dodgy  female ventriloquist.  And a  terrier  who does tricks  Well, more than half the time.  And then Daphne.  Pigtails and no make-up.  Bag dress, shift,  potato  sack?  Mustard leggings.  And  Chuck  Taylor All Star  Sneakers.  Reading next with a  sultry  voice  That did not  match  the rest.  Poems with fire.  A Bully  From  junior  high  A  smirk  and fast hands.  A  black  eye if you falter.  A pond  quivering   Before nightfall,  fireflies   A-dance in  tribute  to  Day’s death.  And  night  hawk’s swoosh.  The next, a  short  trip to  The altar.  Praying so unfamiliar  But honest, transparent, broken  Needing help,  needing  God.  (As if she were  describing  herself.  Well  guess  what.)  She was  totally  let in  Yucky  exterior  coating.  Totally  flummoxed  by  The Voice, th

 

  https://youtube.com/clip/Ugkx8WICzNK_e3NfkwoVNVQ8IhxvMXSxAaAE?si=HhZR7vtRnWGHrBtD   Here is another story of bullying. The Equalizer/Denzel.

 

  I would meet Rienzi at the mall or the grocery store or the neighborhood  St. Agnes church with the lovely bells. He always had time. Blinked and smiled. Received some of my poems in the mail. Encouraged more writing. And not in any pant wetting rush to land a publisher. Just have some fun. Create some zany images and odd choices of words. You are the Boss. You formulate whatever you want. Get to know lots of people courteously. Do public readings. Church library service club.

I  tell ye boys Storm up dere is a howling. Your next  shift  on deck Forty five minutes. Terrified huh? Well  listen  will ye To that  Jonah  account. God’s prophet. Go to  villainous  Ninevah. Preach repentance. You  gotta  be  kidding  Boss. They’re a  horrible  bunch. Took a ship  opposite  direction. Outrun God? His plans? Not a  chance  chicken -shit. Storm  rises  up. Real bad one. Superstitious  mates  toss out The  ornery  prophet. Swallowed up whole By a  stinking  whale. Three days in  cramped  muck. Spat out on some beach. Repentance returned The Dead. Don’t mess with the Lord. His will and  pointing  Finger. P.S.  Ninevah  heard him preach Got  turned  around. God’s  mercy  handed out. Saved.  Whole  bunch of folks And  their  critters too. That’s the Tale Man and whale. (Returning  Billy  to his  squeeze  box. Billows a-singing. Ever so sweet. Little  buttons  scampering.) All  Belowdecks  much bettered. PART TWO ADAM  AND  EVE  SCREWED  UP had a good  thing  going Partne

 

 

  Where has our grandmother gone?She rests, so calm and still.I thank her for my faith’s first blush.I know I always will.Where gone those eyes of crystal,So quick to smile or sing?O’er-shadowed only lately-Now closed to everything? Where gone that voice of comfort, Heard softly ‘neath life’s roar? Last lilting sick-bed psalms of hope, Now hushed for evermore? How marvelous was her resolve In spite of body pain. How strange her benediction: “Grieve not. To die is gain.” How can I bear the sad loss of That life, that voice, those eyes? But for the Saviour’s promise: “Today in Paradise.” As I gaze long at her dear face Before the eulogy, I know by Spirit’s urging, yet Again her face I’ll see. Gram often praised a pleasant land, Aglow with God’s own love; Astir with tasks for joyful saints, Her rich reward above. As Jesus broke the bonds of death, She trusted for the same, And now, I’m sure he honours her For holding to his name. The casket, shut, abruptly. No tearful face, I must Do hono

 

  Theil and Walsh.

 

  Out of town guy Absorbs trouble Like a sponge. Doesn’t go looking Just shows up. Every feature film The poor guy is  Either stranger Or harmonica player. Getting rough treatment. Or fatality. With western campfire  My Mom observing TV would blurt out Please oh please Put down that mouth organ Young fellow You should know better.

  We know this field  Back of the Campus.  Our kids have named it  Gopher Field.  Summer climes.  Time on their hands.  Mom and the two would venture.  And from the rise at the south  Their creation could be launched.  With little running.  Coaxing.  Westerly Wind said  Oh, you wish?  Gophers erect and cheering  With glistening eyes.  Inches from each hole. Edgy always by instinct. The flight denying the Earth  Filled with mirth.  And jerking of times  At heights sublime.