Inner City Poet

photography of person walking on road

Photo by Leo Cardelli

I heard a story ’bout a poet who gave himself away

The inner city was his canvas with no color in his dreams

He was a wanderin’ grifter but no one knows for sure

It is said he still wanders ’round downtown at local bars

 

This City is a hard place and it stings when North winds blow

It shows no mercy to the poor child with no where else to go

I heard a story ’bout a poet who sang his songs for all the lost

Then he set himself on fire to warm them from the chillin’ frost

 

The  children who roam the Night Streets tell the story of a man

called the Inner City Poet who comes each night to tuck them in

Inside their cardboard boxes they lay there heads upon the ground

and the wanderer sings them lullabies ’til morning comes around

Bell Fright

door wooden bell old

Photo by Little Visuals

 

Her hooded gray blue eyes are unexpectedly bright

She speaks of the “old days, the days of Bell Fright

The terror, relentless ringing in the darkest hour of the night.

 

Communism she says, “did not deliver futures bright.”

Just more betrayal and fear, and torture called Bell Fright.

Not the Nazis, no but Comrades Stalin and Marx

Different regimes but same death toll ringing in their hearts.

 

Haunting broken melodies played on Hungarian violins

She still shivers with the memories of dark dank cells

She says  no one ever knew before  it could be so cold in hell.

 

This poem is inspired by the book Goodbye to Budapest by Margarita Morris and to all who have survived the Bell Fright of dictators of evil.

 

 

The Key Hole

antique close up door iron

Photo by Lukasz Dziegel

Peeping through the key hole in someone else’s dream

I thought I saw the answers to the meaning of deep things

There was no life-size rabbit or a balded man named Oz

There was simply Light blazing brighter than the sun

The Son, He is the King with lovers all around him

He cried, “everyone is welcome” but some people would not have him

Then once the door was open the King said, “Please come in”

His loving arms enveloped me can I sing that song again?

 

In the Key of Life

assorted color sequins

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon 

She sees musical notes in color

and the tunes flow like a breeze.

Minor keys are her blue notes

and her hope is the colors of Spring.

 

She can rush on rum and beat on drums

and can play all the chords of strife.

She sees musical notes in color

and writes songs in the key of life.