the man on 7th street
June 3, 2014 § 2 Comments
a mournful saxophone,
just one. its noise like a sermon
echoing above drunken yells
and tires treading. over the constant hum
of street lights and broken voices,
night after night, he plays. making loneliness
cry out into a crowded street of half-hearted
listeners, who sometimes toss him a smile
or a dollar, or two and then shuffle heels
across the concrete walk to catch their friends,
yelling about the a taxi. bar food. a lost wallet. what time it is.
and the man remains, alone and still,
sans his dancing fingers and heaving chest
loyally blowing lonely life into his instrument
filling the crowded air with ups and downs,
a mournful jazz hymn, showering
notes onto an unsuspecting crowd.
they yell about life,
but they may never actually stop to listen to it.
rosepoems 
Read, seen and heard. Nice work.
Music posesses a power of itself. And credit has to be given to the musician as well as to the teller of tales, the latter conveying the spirit of the former, qualfying as his soulmate and intrigueing the readers to echo their innermost sentiments towards reminiscent rememberings. Standing still for a second or a half and rediscovering a truth of life.