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Lincoln Brewster preaches through his guitar.

on June 04, 2024

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Singing on the Road; and for Supper.

Old troubadours remain Their songs the ages greet Some speak of tragic ills And others sound so sweet. They go with horse of years At pace not hurried so They play a fiddle’s tears And hum what we don’t know. The face is weathered, lined Some roads they did not take Til saw familiar signs And lodged so warm, they’d bake. And friends are made right quick For whist or whittling glad Occasionally fell sick But never dreadfully bad. The food will hit the spot And ale a tad too sour But worry, he does not With friends at music’s hour.

You think you have bad days?

Come down here in the mucky waters With me. Balance of living you’ll see Oft just a loner of sour looks. But up there still shines the sun Lush grasses carry its blessing Perhaps today will be fun Perhaps. But do not expect A calve’s run. Have a look at Malachi 4: 2,3 in the Old Testament.

Neath these cedars, fragrant.

Cedar smell delicious As I lose myself In the merciful Shading of lacy green On bunion reaching roots Making walking delicate. Mostly silent. What am I doing here? The Evinrude discarded In the tall grass At Bay’s edge. That Bay with its Unending westerlies And hungry cormorants. A chipmnk heralds My trespass. A downy hammers The Court into session. Identify yourself, city dweller. State your purposes. Not a single step forward Until approved as Benevolent, respectful, adventuresome. A doe flicks her tail Motionless in other respects The delicate female reticence To have intercourse With one so removed From the customary Red Man. With clamshell Breastplate adorned With the beauties of Dried berries. A mother’s preparation, lovingly. Jangling As his feet pounded in dance Upon the dirt of Mother Earth. Turtle Earth. Odd to talk of turtles Neath these Cedars. Bay seeming part Of another wet world.

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Lincoln Brewster preaches through his guitar.

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