His dark and weathered skin Might be older than the street itself Deep set eyes that have watched As ages have come and gone Fingers swollen with arthritis Yet they move like a young man’s When dancing along brass valves That pull from those old memories Playing out tunes vibrating Between uproarious joy And the deepest of blues Feet tapping along side a case Filled with crumpled dollars Dirty coins from tourists Who appreciate the change He offers from mundane lives Marked by silence of everyday Not today where hearts are touched Through those brassy notes Changing them in one way or another From secret smiles to obvious tears Each wanting the music to continue Throwing change to the blues man To keep on blowing those songs
Copyright © 2021 TJS Sherman All rights reserved.
A creative tribute to street musicians who may never earn fame or fortune, but they still touch hearts, maybe more so than others who wouldn’t last a day living that life. Was your poem inspired by someone in particular?
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Thank you!
Not a tribute to anyone in particular, just thinking on times I’ve visited New Orleans and all the phenomenal musicians I saw there.
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Cool reflection. Your poem reminded me of similar experiences when visiting Portland.
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I live on the west coast now, I feel like street music isn’t as prevalent out here (probably because of the weather), but it’s nice when it’s there.
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Hard to compare to street musicians in New Orleans, I imagine. Mill Avenue, near ASU, always has a few and downtown Phoenix is similar. More during festivals, but those have been nonexistent.
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I really hope these street activities and festivals come back in better times. Fingers crossed.
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Let’s hope so. Maybe we will have a creative renaissance! I do think creativity and art has found a way, even during the pandemic. It certainly has save me.
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Here’s to hoping!
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