The wooden floors vibrated
from the sound of many drums
Rhythm everywhere around
enjoyed by everyone
And I danced to special timbre
pulsated by the beat
from heart and soul and head and hands
right down to my feet
Each month with new music
I’ll chop and I’ll change
and the playlists I use
I will oft re-arrange
So I’m grateful for i-pods
with music in mind
as with buds in my ears
I can always unwind
Alone on the shingle
Salt in my mouth
Braced against wind
Looking to South
Out there in the green
Waves rise and fall
As I listen again
To familiar call
A song just for me
The swoop and the cry
The sea and its music
As seagulls fly by
It was raining in Brighton
and, strolling back to the car
parked there in Ann Street
from the centre, not far
We paused to admire
on the wall, ‘cross the way
some graffiti scrawled quickly
but with something to say
…shooting up the veins of the heart city, – a hundred miles an hour – as a a good junkie does well, and I can tell, that, despite admiration, I am fated for hell & yet oh well I don’t mind where all the ground fell while I was staring up at you through this miraculous well, and you were bankrupt before you decided to sell, and at your coffin, coughing casualties at commiserating children kissing flowers, praying by the hour, to not tower thus so high that one falls and usurps vitality, – power which dwindles stale & dwindles thus more sour; as if in high
The candle and the music
of an evening warm inside
Slumber slowly beckons
as the day and night collide
And as my pen finds solace
with a verse to capture this
with music an encouragement
I slip away to bliss
I wanted to be Steve Jobs
I wanted to be Joni Mitchell
I wanted to be Leonard Cohen
I wanted to be Carl Sagan,
Bobby Kennedy.
I wanted to be that person,
the one they’ll say years from now,
“yeah, whatever happened to him?”
The way people do, about certain
Rare, shining talents, like Joni, or Steve,
Or Carl. Mystery
that can’t be explained.
The feet upon the wooden floor
Are moving to the beat
as conversation struggles
for those who’ve found a seat
The man up on the microphone
is getting really loud
But the music’s really throbbing
and is pleasing to the crowd
It was raining in Brighton
and, strolling back to the car
parked there in Ann Street
from the centre, not far
We paused to admire
on the wall, ‘cross the way
some graffiti scrawled quickly
but with something to say
Rhythm of the rails
strikes a resonant chord
Music for the morning
and the commuter hoard
Newspapers folded
Tablets fired up
with caffeine boosters
from paper cup
Gathering momentum
into the Weald
Heading for London
through Sussex field
