He strolls the shoreline,
pants rolled above ankles
as waves crash, seemingly cling,
momentarily comb October's beach smooth
before rapidly receding, repeating ,
footprints lasting as long
as the chords he strums.
Silhouetted against the sinking sun,
he's mysterious, a balladeer, a poet,
a young man beginning a journey -
seeking, offering his voice
as a gift to the sky
which is swooped, caught, and carried
to the clouds upon seagulls' wings.
I imagine him in New York's subway,
no blue, no fresh breeze,
playing these tunes, lyrics birthed -
hair escaping over furrowed brow,
leaning back, slouching, James Dean style,
offering a glimpse of a smirk, almost
allowing us in on his secrets.
Imagine him gazing at the moon
from small apartment window,
fighting sleep, dreaming of a lover's kiss,
wishing upon a star (straight on 'til morning),
penning his soul,
a moment leatherbound,
etched into forever.
Dreams fill him daily, I envy him that;
ponder when I misplaced my daring,
my castles in the air. When did I forget
imagination isn't delusion? His chin
tilts upward, his heart in his fingers
as they strum the chords. I kick off my shoes,
roll up my pants, test the sand with my toe.
by Margaret Bednar, October 9, 2019
I invite you to listen to me read my poem:
This is linked with "Poets United - Midweek Motif - Everyday Living" and "dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics - Profiles and Portraits" and "Imaginary Garden of Real Toads - Sanaa's Challenge - October - When Poets Dream, Lament, and Sing" - the song I chose to listen to and reflect upon was: Aerosmith - I Don't Want to Miss a Thing.