The streets are me broken chains of thought in the company of whistles and horns a subway below sidewalks of people fishing for space between crosswalks while a guitar and sax play songs for quarters and dimes all beneath a sun and clouds forming shade and shadows as the engine is motion  


Two blocks into Harlem.  White shirts, black ties, flowered dresses, patent leather shoes, tattoos and beautiful hair; the streets are always alive.   The beat mixes up.  The man with a full beard smiles, exposing a picket fence for teeth.  Conga drums call out the dance in people.  Red and purple cotton hats jive like … More THE HEART OF SONG


His guitar had a better voice and face.  He played out the words like a sweet dessert.  Pain and loss was his shirt and untied shoes, pasted to a long and light frame. He washes his beard in the rain. Clouds are his blankets and the ground his pillow where dreams fade away. There’s a … More WITHOUT HOME


Her guitar was the voice comfortable. On her forearm a tattoo faded into shadows. Wishing and dreams wash through her fingers.  Gold rings tap a checkered table cloth.  The band playing behind her feeds the air into the song.  Stage lights steam away past loves and promises.  Her chances of breaking out push against the … More LOCKED TO GO


A guitar fills a soft space between soul and need releasing petals of sound merging into the blood of day.   Wounds are healed within the weave of notes closing out loss strengthening bones and heart with growth.   The sounds continue, watering unfolding blossoms as darkness retreats.   The guitar soothes the moment, opening … More UNFOLDING


Fingers tell the guitar man’s story. Puddles are the snowflakes of cold tears. Lost winds brush against willow trees with breezes spinning from the equator. Cold walks. Hard rain. Diners without vacant seats. Neon lights. Trucks pushing a hard dark night. Flannel shirts and too many stop signs. Everybody wants to be found.   Open … More SOUTH SOUTHEAST


I got me a guitar. The life of my hands jumps the strings, forcing words out my mouth with a sound of thunder popping, so remember, this ain’t no opera, where neon lights crackle with sizzle and busted dreams lay scattered in alley suitcases, cracked open like eggs snapping on a griddle of grease, spattering … More DRINKING RAIN


The sound of a guitar holds cool night air hostage as the notes drift over the sidewalk below like soft linen draping the skin, holding tight while retaining the heat.  An easy changing of chords reminds me of ocean blue days and warm sand or the aroma of approaching storms. The music breaks the bonds … More SERENADE


      On the bank of a wide river where pause collides with slow a man and a guitar finds rest under dripping moss. His broad fingers find refuge with the strings like captured moths circling feverishly around a single hanging bulb. A calico cat appearing dead brushes its tail without order to the … More A WIDE RIVER


        The back porch creaks of age as feet press a voice from its surface. A song from a guitar keeps time with the sway of lazy moss. Crickets hungry for noise, satisfy the appetite of their energy.   Dusty shoes got the soul of tapping, slapping the ground with the beat … More A NIGHT SONG